D  IT  A 


BY 

LADY  MARGARET  MAJENDI& 


86  This  Is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that,  ever 

Ran  on  the  green-sward:  nothing:  she  does,  or  S66E3S, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place.1' 

WINIEB'S  T&LB. 


NEW  YORK: 

OEORGE  MUNRO'S  SOXS,  PUBLISHER^ 

2?  TO  gT  VANPEWATEK  STREET. 


DITA. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

"HooT,  man!  wake  up,  Minister!  Canna  ye  wake  for 
ance  in  your  life,  Minister!  Mr.  Malcolm!  ye're  speired 
for  frae  Dunmonaigh!"  Master  Malcolm  Farquhar  was 
in  bed,  and,  wearied  by  two  long  sermons — for  it  was  the 
evening  of  Sunday — he  slept  soundly. 

The  wind  roared  round  the  bleak  little  manse,  and  the 
rain  deluged  the  windows,  sweeping  down  the  valley  with 
a  hissing  sound;  but  the  noise  had  no  power  to  wake  the 
weary  Minister.  Kerenhappuch,  the  honest  servant,  who 
formed  the  whole  domestic  household  of  the  manse,  was 
fain  to  take  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  give  him  such  a 
shake  as  could  not  fail  to  rouse  him. 

"  There,"  she  said,,  stopping  to  get  back  her  breath,  as 
she  saw  the  gleam  of  returning  consciousness  in  Master 
Malcolm's  blue  eyes.  "  Ye're  ill  to  waken,  Minister!" 

"What's  the  matter  now,  Huppie?"  he  said,  rousing 
himself,  and  sitting  up. 

"Matter!  there's  matter  eneugh!  Here's  Willie  come 
down  frae  Dunmonaigh — my  Lady  Grisel's  speiringfor  ye, 
and  she  says  ye  maun  come  awa'  doun  as  fast  as  ye  can 
win." 

"  But  what  can  it  be?  are  they  ill?  can  you  not  tell  me?" 

"  Yon^ll  just  pit  on  your  bit  duds,  Meeuister;  I'll  no  be 
telling  ye  till  ye're  nigh  upon  ready." 

Knowing  that  to  argue  with  his  housekeeper  was  but 
waste  of  time,  the  Minister  rose  from  his  bed,  and  began 
to  dress  himself  in  haste,  in  great  anxiety.  He  would 
willingly  have  continued  the  conversation  through  the 
closed  door;  but  to  his  imploring  repetition  of  "  What 
will  it  be,  Huppie?  hi\s  anything  terrible  happened?" 


2138624   * 


DITA. 


Huppie  vouchsafed  no  response  whatever,  and  he  eould 
only  hasten  the  more. 

When  fully  dressed,  he  emerged  from  his  room,  a  strong 
hale  man  of  fifty,  with  a  kind  but  rugged  countenance,  Ins 
gray  hair  brushed  back  under  a  Glengarry  bonnet,  and  a 
stout  stick  in  his  hand. 

Huppie  stood  waiting,  holding  a  lantern,  and  with  her 
shawl  pinned  tightly  over  her  head. 

'You'll  not  be  coming  with  me,  Huppie,"  said  Master 
Malcolm;  "  it's  a  wild,  rough  night!" 

Huppie  tossed  her  head,  and  led  the  way  out  into  the 
darkness.  The  first  blast  of  wind,  as  they  left  the  shelter 
of  the  house,  made  both  stagger  back,  and  it  was  not  till 
they  reached  a  place  where  the  path  was  sheltered  by  trees, 
that  Kerenhappuch  found  her  tongue. 

'•'  There's  been  a  terrible  accident  doun  at  Dunmonaigh  " 
she  said,  "and  the  young  laird  has  been  brought   hama 
man-  dead  than  alive.     Yon  Willie  (useless  carle!)  says 
-hat  there's   nae  hope  noo  but  in  the  mercy  of  God     for 
ilka  bane  in  the  puir  lad's  body  is  broken." 
"  God  help  him!  how  did  it  happen?" 
Again  Kerenhappuch  was  forced  to  pause,  overpowered 
by  the  gust  of  wind  and   rain  which   met  them   as  they 

turned  a  corner:  then  she  went  on 

"It's  all  Maister  Ewan's  fancy  for  yon  wild  brute  that 
Willie  had  christened  Beelzebub.  The  laird  himsel  wouldna 
ride  him,  I  m  tauld;  but  Maister  Ewan  must  aye  be  doiuo- 

what  nae  ither  body  wad  dream  of;  and  this  mornino- " 

This  morning,  the  Sabbath!"  groaned  the  Minister. 
Ihis  morning  he  must  up,  when   ither  decent  folks 
were  at  the  kirk,  and  awa'  to  Strathluan,  where  he   goes 
maist  days:  and  he  rode  Beelzebub." 
"  Hush,  Iiuppie!"'' 

"I  maun  use  the  brute's  lawfu'  name,"  said   Huppie, 

obstinately       "  He  could na    have    left  Strathlnan    three 

3  behind  him,  when  doun  comes  the  rain,  and  the  wind 

Sai;s  the  rain  fly  in    Beelze m  the  black   horse's  eyes: 

and  Willie,  wha  saw  the  young  laird  pass  by  to  his  death 
says  that  nae  power  on  earth  could  gar  him  stop;  he  was 
mad  wi  fury  and  rage,  and  doun  Monaigh  hill  they  came: 
and  the  black  horse  had  the  bit  in  his  teeth,  and  he 
Jookit  neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  but  awa'  doun  the  road 
to  the  loch." 


DITA.  O 

"  God  be  merciful  to  us!"  said  the  Minister. 

"  Ay,  maister,  ilka  drop  of  blood  froze  in  Willie's  body, 
for  he  saw  what  maun  come.  Maister  Ewan  held  on  like 
the  deil  hirnsel,  and  he  might  hae  stoppit  ony  ither  horse 
but  yon  at  the  corner.  As  they  passed,  Willie  gaed  siccan 
a  skriech  that  ye  couldna  tell  what  it  might  be,  and  the 
young  laird  gied  him  ae  look  as  he  passed,  with  his  hands 
weel  doun,  and  grasping  the  black  horse's  mane;  bu.t  when 
he  was  come  to  the  dyke,,  he  loosed  his  twa  hands  sudden- 
ly, and  struck  hard  wi'  whip  and  spur.  Weel,  Willie  saw 
his  thocht,  to  gar  the  black  horse  loup  ower  the  dyke  and 
awa'  into  the  loch;  but  wae's  me?  it  is  steep,  and  he 
couldna  stop  for  the  loup.  He  struck  his  broad  chest  on 
the  dyke,  and  awa'  they  went  thegether,  till  ye  couldna 
tell  whilk  was  the  man  and  whilk  was  the  beast,  till  they 
stoppit  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water;  and  the  black 
horse  had  broken  his  back,  and  the  young  laird  was  mair 
like  to  a  corpse  than  a  living  man." 

11  Pray  God  he  may  yet  be  alive!"  cried  Master  Mal- 
colm, hastening  his  steps  almost  to  a  run. 

"  Not  that  gate,  Minister!"  cried. Huppie,  interrupting 
him,  as  he  turned  down  the  narrow  road  leading  to  the 
loch. 

"  Ye'll  no  cross  the  loch  the  night?" 

"  I  must  do  so — it  takes  two  miles  off  the  road;  there 
is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  But  it's  a  fearsome  night!" 

"  1  know  every  stone  in  the  loch,  so  do  not  be  afraid, 
Huppie;  it  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  crossed  at  night." 

They  were  descending  the  path  which  led  abruptly  to 
the  edge  of  the  mountain  lake,  on  the  northern  shore  of 
which  stood  Dunmonaigh  Castle.  They  could  say  no 
more,  for  their  words  were  unheard  in  the  whistling  and 
howling  of  the  wind. 

It  was  a  good  fortune  that  made  the  moon  shine  out 
for  one  moment,  uncertain  and  wavering,  struggling  and 
wading  through  heavy  cloud?,  but  giving  sufficient  light 
to  enable  Master  Malcolm  to  draw  the  boat  out  of  a 
sheltering  hole  in  the  rock,  and  begin  to  unloose  the  oars. 

Huppie,  whose  nerves  were  roused  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  excitement,  now  suddenly  uttered  a  scream.- 

"What's  that,  Maister  Malcolm  —  what's  that?"  she 
cried,  trembling. 


6  DITA. 

Down  the  path  they  had  just  quitted,  they  perceived  a 
figure  running  swiftly  after  them. 

"  It  is  some  one  who  needs  our  help,"  said  the  Minister, 
severely.  He  hated  unreasonable  fears,  and  he  went  a 
few  steps  back  to  meet  the  new-comer. 

"If  you  are  a  Christian,  as  you  are  a  human  being, 
help  me  in  my  need!"  cried  a  voice  through  the  darkness, 
the  sound  of  which  Master  Malcolm  recognized. 

"  Assunta!"  he  said;  "you  here?  at  this  hour?" 

"Is  it  you?  ah,  be  merciful!  take  me  to  Uunmonaigh; 
there  are  yet  two  miles  by  the  road,  and  they  tell  me  he  is 
dying!"  Her  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream. 

"  Get  in  and  seat  yourself,"  said  the  Minister,  gravely; 
and  taking  the  oars,  he  began  to  row  out  into  the  lake. 

Assunta  cowered  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
folding  more  closely  in  her  arms  the  little  child  she 
carried. 

"Assunta,"  said  the  Minister,  solemnly,  "is  it  well 
that  you  should  be  here  now?" 

"  Alas!  signore,  to  say  farewell — Maria  santissima,  help 
me!"  she  cried,  wildly. 

Tlio  Minister  said  no  more.  The  wind  lashed  the  loch 
up  with  a  restless,  surging  movement,  and  it  needed  all 
his  attention  to  row  safely  to  land. 

Lights  flitted  backward  and  forward  through  the  long, 
dark  passages  of  Dunmonaigh;  backward  and  forward 
hurried  bewildered  and  terrified  servants;  but  in  the  sick- 
chamber  all  was  profoundly  still,  except  for  the  deep- 
drawn  breathing  of  the  dying  man. 

The  little  group  were  gathered  around  him  of  his 
nearest  of  kin— Lady  Grisel,  his  mother,  who  tended  him 
with  a  rigid  countenance,  all  her  life's  lessons  in  self- 
control  now  summoned  to  her  aid;  beside  her,  her  second 
sun  Angus,  whom  she  loved  far  better  than  hapless  Ewan. 

Angus's  face  was  strange,  so  dire  were  the  conflicting 
passions  that  altered  its  expression  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment us  his  keen  blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  dying  brother. 
Angus  should  have  been  the  eldest  son — all  agreed  in 
that;  his  was  the  clear  intellect,  the  power  of  organiza- 
tion, the  steady  self-respect.  Poor  Ewan  was  the  ne'er- 
do-weel,  full  of  heart  and  affectionate,  but  self-willed, 
weak,  and  extravagant.  Was  the  birthright  to  be  his  at 
last?  Was  fortune  to  smile  on  Angus,  the  dearly-prized 


DITA.  ,  7 

inheritance  to  fall  to  him,  hitherto  a  penniless  younger 
son?  Was  he  on  the  eve  of  possessing  all,  heir  of  the 
almost  fendal  power  Macmonacli  inherited  with  his  blood? 
Angus  strove  hard  to  pray  that  his  brother  might  yet  be 
spared,  but  tof  long  had  he  yielded  to  envy  and  covetous 
longings  to  resist  the  tempter  now,  and  his  lips  would 
not  frame  the  words,  and  his  heart  would  not  utter 
tbe  lie. 

Lady  Grisel  moved  to  and  fro,  and  moistened  her  son's 
lips  with  brandy,  and  the  doctor  sat  with  his  finger  on 
his  pulse,  waiting  till  the  deep-drawn  breaths  should  grow 
slower  and  fainter. 

There  came  a  soft  knock  at  the  door,  and  Lady  Grisel 
opened  it  noiselessly.  "The  Minister  is  come,"  said  a 
whispering  voice,  and  Lady  Grisel  went  out  to  him,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

The  great  door  and  entrance  to  Dunmonaigh  opened  on 
to  the  mainland,  but  a  small  side  or  postern  door  in  the 
great  hall  opened  on  to  the  loch,  and  from  this  half-a-dozen 
steps  descended  into  the  water;  here  the  boats  unladed 
and  were  fastened  to  large  iron  rings  in  the  wall. 

Master  Malcolm  had  fastened  his  boat,  and  by  the  light 
of  the  lantern  which  Kerenhappuch  held  up  at  arm's- 
length  standing  in  the  stern,  he  half  supported,  half  car- 
ried Assunta  up  the  steps  and  into  the  hall. 

The  Minister  took  off  his  great  cloak,  throwing  it  on  a 
gtool,  from  which,  before  long,  the  water  with  which  the 
garment  was  saturated  streamed  on  to  the  floor. 

The  hall  was  but  dimly  lighted  by  two  brass  lamps 
which  stood  on  the  great  stone  chimney-piece,  and  As- 
sunta, faint  and  cold  with  terror,  shrank  into  the  shadow 
thrown  by  theAvide  mantel-shelf,  so  that  when  Lady  Grisel 
passed  into  the  hall,  she  only  perceived  the  tall  figure  of 
the  Minister  and  Kerenhappuch  who  stood  by  the  postern. 

"You  have  come  to  a  bed  of  death,  Master  Malcolm," 
she  said,  and  her  voice  sounded  cold  and  passionless. 

"Ay,  Lady  Grisel,  God  help  the  poor  lad  through  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death— I  am  come  to  pray  by  him 
and  with  him." 

Lady  Grisel  shook  her  head,  and  her  hands  clasped  each 
other  tightly. 

"  Too  late,"  she  said;  "  before  another  hour  is  past,  he 
will  be  called  to  give  an  account  of  his  stewardship." 


8  EITA. 

A  look  almost  of  displeasure  crossed  the  Minister's  gen- 
tle face,  as  he  said,  "God  is  merciful!" 

She  turned  toward  the  door,  and  motioning  with  her 
}iand  that  he  should  follow  her,  led  the  way. 

Assunta  started  up  and  followed  them  swiftly  with  the 
child  in  her  arms. 

"Ewan,  the  Minister  has  come  to  you,"  said  Lady 
Grisel,  bending  over  her  dying  son.  "Have  you  no  word 
of  repentance?" 

She  held  the  candle  full  in  his  dimmed  sight,  she  spoke 
loud,  but  there  came  no  response  except  the  labored 
breathing — no  movement  of  the  half-shut  eyelids. 

"  He  shouldna  be  vexed,  Leddy  Grisel,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, tenderly;  "man-canna  help  him  the  noo;"  and  he 
moistened  the  white  lips  again. 

Noiselessly  As&nnta  had  stolen  to  the  door,  but  now  she 
burst  from  Huppie's  hands,  who  would  fain  have  held 
her  back,  and,  throwing  her  shawl  back  from  her  face, 
she  rushed  forward  to  the  side  of  the  dying  man.  She 
threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and  the  agony  of  her  voice 
filled  the  astonished  bystanders  with  momentary  a\vo. 

"Ewan!  Ewan!  it 'is  I!  Speak  to  me!  look  up,  my 
own!  Ewan,  I  have  brought  my  child— look  xip^  rny 
heart!  my  treasure!  it  is  I— ah,  speak  to  me!" 

•'  Take  her  away,"  said  Lady  GrisePs  stern  voice,  and 
she  looked  to  the  Minister  and  the  doctor,  but  neither 
moved.  Assunta  had  laid  her  child  on  the  pillow;  she 
leant  over  the  dying  man,  and  her  cry  rose  louder  than 
ever — 

"Ewan!  once  more— one  word — you  never  say  me  nay 
—look  at  me — speak  to  me— only  one  word!  God!  oh 
God,  have  pity!" 

"'Take  her  away,"  repeated  Lady  Grisel,  hoarsolv,  then 
suddenly  started  back,  for  Ewan  Macmonach's  eyes 
opened  wide,  his  broken  arms  were  useless,  but  by  the 
mighty  strength  which  had  made  him  famous  on  the 
country-side,  he  raised  himself  in  bed,  and  said  loudly— 

"Mother!  Assunta,  my "  No  more:  the  false 

strength  left  him  and  he  fell  back.  Huppie,  who  had 
crept  in,  caught  Assunta  in  her  arms  and  pressed  her  to 
her  breast.  Lady  Grisel  knelt  down  till  the  death-struggle 
ceased. 

"  Lord,  help  now  thy  servant,  as  he  passeth  through 


D1TA.  9 

the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  deaih."     Even  as  the  words 
of  the  Minister  ceased,  they  saw  it  was  over. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ONE  by  one  they  withdrew,  drawing  back  as  those  draw 
buck  who  feel  that  their  work  is  finished.  The  unfortu- 
nate Assunta  remained  kneeling  by  the  bed,  clinging  fran- 
tically to  the  clothes,  to  the  hand  they  would  have  re- 
moved from  her  grasp. 

"  Take  her  away,"  whispered  Lady  Grisel  again,  and 
this  time  Master  Malcolm  obeyed.  The  child,  still  an  in- 
fant, began  to  wail;  Lady  Grisel  started  at  the  sound,  but 
the  mother  gave  it  no  heed:  Kerenhappuch  took  it  from 
the  bed. 

The  doctor  and  the  Minister  raised  Assunta  to  her  feet, 
her  eyes  still  fixed;  they  undid  one  by  one  the  clinging 
fingers;  they  carried  rather  than  led  her  to  the  door,  where 
sense  forsook  her,  and  she  fell  insensible  to  the  ground. 

The  two  men  laid  her  on  a  settle  in  the  hall,  and  the 
doctor  knelt  down  beside  her  and  chafed  her  cold  hands. 

Lady  Grisel  sat  down  by  the  fire.  The  wind  was  howl- 
ing, and  the  rain  beating  outside.  Angus  came  and 
stood  by  his  mother:  he  was  deadly  pale.  There  was  a 
profound  silence,  the  clock  ticking  heavily,  and  the  doc- 
tor's movements  sounded  loud  and  distinct. 

At  last  Lady  Grisel  rose:  she  put  her  hand  on  the  Min- 
ister's arm  and  drew  him  aside.  "  Alas!"  she  said,  (i  dis- 
grace as  well  as  grief  has  fallen  on  Dunmonaigh." 

"  Lady  Grisel,"  said  Master  Malcolm,  solemnly,  "  I  be- 
lieve her  to  be  his  wife." 

"  You  know  not  what  you  say  Master  Malcolm,"  she 
answered;  "  Ewan  Macmonach  was  never  married." 

"  Ewan  never  was  a  villain,"  said  the  Minister,  firmly. 
"  Man  and  boy  have  I  known  the  lad,  and  his  heart  was 
as  true  as  steel,  and  he  was  the  soul  of  honor." 

"That  girl  his  wife!"  cried  Lady  Grisel — "  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  Italian  adventurer,  a  stranger  to  us  and  not  of 
our  creed, — would  you " 

"Ewan!"  that  faint  imploring  voice  came  from  the  set- 
tle; con  scion  sues  had  returned  to  Assunta:  one  wild  look 
from  her  great  dark  eyes,  and  she  staggered  to  her  feet, 


10  DITA. 

Lady  Grisel  turned  to  the  fire,  and  away  from  the  un- 
happy girl.  Terrible  was  that  return  to  consciousness; 
moans  burst  from  her  lips,  and  her  hands  were  wrung  to- 
gether; she  crossed  the  room  and  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  before  his  mother. 

"Has  he  told  you?"  she  cried;  "has  he  acknowledged 
me  and  our  child"?  Pie  was  all  I  had  in  the  wide,  wide 
world,  and  he  is  gone.  I  am  his  wife,  laay — his  own  wife 
— and  he  is  dead.  Have  pity  on  me — have  pity  on  his 
child — I  am  Ewun's  wife!" 

Lady  Grisel  for  one  moment  turned  and  stooped  over 
the  unhappy  girl,  but  started,  for  she  felt  Angus's  cold 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  heard  him  whisper — 

"Mother,  say  nothing — do  nothing:  this  claim  must  be 
proved." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  turning  to  the  Minister.  "  If 
she  can  prove  it,  Master  Malcolm,  bring  her  to  in e  as  my 
son's  wife — till  then,  will  you  care  for  her?" 

"  Hear  me,  lady!"  cried  Assunta,  once  more;  "you  will 
not  cast  us  out.  It  is  not  for  myself,  it  is  for  Ewan's 
child;  Ewan  is  mine — my  husband — and  you  are  his 
mother." 

Lady  Grisel  drew  her  gown  gently  from  the  poor  girl's 
grasp  and  rose  from  her  seat;  Assunta  fell  forward  with 
her  face  hidden  on  the  chair. 

Again  Lady  Grisel  would  have  spoken,  but  once  more 
Angus  interposed — "Come  away,  mother,"  he  said;  and 
turning  to  the  Minister,  added,  "  These  ravings  are  most 
painful  and  unseemly,  Master  Malcolm;  may  1  beg  of  you 
to  remove  this  girl?" 

The  Minister  bowed,  and  approached  with  a  look  of 
deep  sadness. 

"  Come,  my  poor  child,"  he  said — "come  home  with 
me;  to-morrow  we  will  talk  of  these  things." 

She  rose  up  at  his  words,  looking  blindly  round  her 
and  clinging  to  his  hand.  He  led  her  toward  the  door; 
then  she  stopped,  and  pressing  her  hands  on  her  heart, 
she  said — 

"Stop,  Padre,  I  have  forgotten  my  child." 

Kerenhappuch  brought  her  the  little  one,  and  the 
Minister  wrapped  a  great  plaid  round  them  both.  He 
opened  the  door  and  looked*  out  on  the  lake;  the  water 
Burged  sullenly  up  and  down,  but  the  moon  had  struggled 


DITA.  11 

through  wild,  broken  clouds,  and  edged  them  with  fitful 
light.  Kerenhappuch  unfastened  the  bout,  and  now 
took  the  oars  herself;  slowly  the  Minister  followed,  sup- 
porting Assunta,  and  with  a  strong  thrust  Huppie  rowed 
off  into  the  loch;  then  Assunta  looked  back,  and  she 
threw  up  her  arms  to  heaven,  uttering  one  agonized 
cry.  At  that  sound  Lady  Grisel  came  out  on  the  steps, 
and  stood  watching  the  boat  making  its  slow  way  over  the 
black  water,  and  through  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  rain  she 
could  hear  the  wailing  of  the  little  child.  Then  she  re- 
turned to  her  sou,  and  they  were  alone.  Lady  Grisel  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  into  his  face — 

"  You  believe  nothing  of  all  this,  mother?"  s&id  An- 
gus, restlessly. 

Lady  Grisel  sat  down,  and  rested  her  brow  on  her  hand — 

"  What  can  I  say,  Angus?" -she  said. 

"  You  cannot  believe  it;  on  the  very  face  of  it  is  false- 
hood." 

"  Ewan  was  never  false." 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Why  should  he 
have  deceived  us  by  concealing  his  marriage?  Tell  me 
jou  do  not  believe  it.  Why,  look  you,  mother,  it  cannot 
be  true — it  is  quite  impossible;  why  do  you  not  speak?" 

"  If  it  be  true."  said  Lady  Grisel,  "  the  proofs  will  be 
forthcoming:  till  then,  Angus,  let  it  rest." 

"But,"  said  Angus,  faltering  for  one  moment,  "if  it 
should  be  true?" 

"  Then  the  child  of  this  strange  woman  will  be  the 
heir." 

"It  must  be  proved  to  be  a  lie:  mother,  why  do  you 
not  say  it  is  impossible?" 

For  one  moment  her  self-command  gave  way,  and  she 
wrung  her  hands. 

"  Why,  Angus,  do  you  ask  me  why  I  say  nothing?  Be- 
cause I  see  nothing  on  any  side  but  sorrow  and  trouble, 
disappointment  or  dire  disgrace;  I  can  bear  no  more 
now,"  and  she  left  the  room. 

Angus  paced  up  and  down — he  could  not  be  still.  Was 
the  golden  cup  just  placed  to  his  lips  to  be  dashed  thence 
by  cruel  fortune?  It  was  hard,  bitterly  hard:  his  teeth 
ground  together,  and  the  drops  stood  on  his  brow  as  tho 
thought  pressed  on  him  that  it  might  be  true;  his  very 
knowledge  of  his  brother's  headstrong  but  honorable  nat- 


12  DITA. 

ure  added  to  his  feara.  What  did  that  dying  effort  mean 
when  all  effort  had  seemed  impossible?  Angus's  dread 
grew  more  and  more;  he  could  scarcely  suppress  the  agi- 
tation which  swelled  his  breast  almost  to  bursting.  He 
had  so  longed  for  the  wealth  so  lavishly  spent  by  his 
brother;  it  had  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  only  thing  worth 
having,  the  key  to  power,  the  stepping-stone  of  ainbiiion 
— and  it  had  been  so  nearly  within  his  grasp.  When  the 
men  had  brought  poor  Ewan  home  to  die.  Angus  had 
striven  hard  for  a  natural  feeling  of  grief.  He  had  knelt 
beside  his  brother  and  held  his  hand  and  listened  to  encli 
groan,  telling  himself  that  they  pierced  his  heart,  that 
tlu-y  were  agony  to  him;  and  when  the  doctor  pronounced 
his  verdict,  he  mistook  the  tears  that  rose  to  his  eyes 
for  genuine  grief.  But  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitter- 
ness; and  the  tears  he  was  shedding  now — the  unmanly 
tears  drawn  by  the  intense  irritation  of  suspense  and  dis- 
appointment— were  a  thousand  times  more  genuine. 

The  morning  had  begun  to  dawn,  and  the  cold  blue 
light  shone  in  on  the  deserted  rooms;  all  the  servants 
were  gone  to  bed  save  the  watchers  in  the  death-room, 
when  Lady  Grisel  stole  down  once  more  to  gaze  on  the 
face  of  the  dead.  The  women  drew  back  when  she  en- 
tered and  left  her  alone;  the  dreary  light  filled  the  room, 
and  outside  the  wind  had  sunk  to  a  whispering  moan. 

Lady  Grisel  stood  looking  on  her  son,  and  visions 
passed  before  her,  not  of  the  marble  form  on  which  she 
gazed,  but  of  what  once  had  been;  of  blue  eyes  gleaming 
With  youth  and  strength— of  yellow  curly  hair— of  the 
tall,  stalwart  figure,  the  first  m  hurling  the  stone,  the 
truest  shot,  the  keenest  sportsman,  the  idol  of  his  men, 
and  now  how  still!  Had  she  ever  loved  him  as  he 
should  be  loved?  Old  days  came  back  to  her  mind,  her 
husband  bending  over  the" boy,  bidding  him  dry  his  tears, 
for  his  mother  should  not  chide  him,  and  she  saw  books 
and  tasks  flung  aside,  and  father  and  son  away  to  the 
mountains,  both  untaught  and  unlettered,  but  bright 
find  beautiful  and  strong:— could  it  then  be  strange  that 
her  disappointed  ambition  should  turn  from  these  and 
center  on  clever,  industrious  Angus. 

These  visions  fled,  and   she  saw  only  the  closed  eyes, 
the  still  brow,  and  knew  that  her  son  was  dead. 

A\  hat  was  this  feeling  rising  in  her  breast?   She  turned 


DITA.   "  13 

away  -with  clasped  hands — she  must  go — anywhere  away 
— for  she  felt  that  within  her  was  a  feeling  that,  were  it 
not  mightily  suppressed,  would  rise  up  into  an  uncon- 
trollable agony. 

Sometimes  when  in  life  one  is  denied  the  power  of  in- 
spiring love,  Death,  cruel  or  kind,  comes  in,  bringing  ret- 
ribution in  his  hand:  the  living  man  dies,  and  from  his 
ashes  Death  creates  a  love  that  is  all  agony,  and  so  avenges 
him. 

Angus  was  at  the  door  when  she  came  out,  and  she  put 
her  hand  into  his  that  he  might  lead  her  away,  her  heart 
yearning  for  sympathy.  As  they  went  together,  one  of 
the  women  touched  Angus's  arm,  and  held  out  something 
to  him.  It  was  his  brother's  signet-ring.  A  strange 
feeling  made  him  shiver  from  head  to  foot  as  he  placed  it 
on  his  finger. 

CHAPTER  III. 

ASSTJNTA  had  placed  herself  and  her  child  unhesitating- 
ly in  the  hands  of  worthy  Master  Malcolm,  and  with  the 
true  charity  of  his  kindly  nature,  he  took  in  the  friendless 
woman,  housed  and  feu  her,  and  administered  to  her 
broken  spirit.  Till  the  funeral  of  the  young  laird  should 
be  over,  he  would  not  question  or  disturb  her;  and  indeed 
she  seemed  to  be  in  no  wise  capable  of  answering  ques- 
tions, but  sat  with  vacant  eyes,  bending  over  her  child, 
and  rocking  herself  to  and  fro;  but  when  that  solemn  day 
had  parsed  by,  the  Minister  judged  it  best  to  hear  Assunta's 
story  before  inquiries  were  made  from  Dunmonaigh. 

Assunta  de' Carol i  was  the  only  child  of  an  unfortunate 
political  refugee.  While  she  was  still  a  little  child, 
Leone  de'  Caroli  had  been  forced  to  flee  from  his  native 
country  with  her  and  her  young  mother:  the  latter  fell 
an  easy  victim  to  the  colder  climate  of  the  north  of  Scot- 
land, whither  motives  of  economy  and  the  necessity  for 
secrecy  had  induced  them  to  come,  and  Assunta  was  left 
to  the  sole  guardianship  of  her  father.  She  adored  him; 
she  entered  fully  into  the  wild  political  schemes  he  formed 
in  his  imaginative  brain;  she  aided  him  in  a  thousand 
secret  correspondences,  all  of  which,  one  after  another, 
crumbled  away  to  be  replaced  immediately  by  still  more 
secret  and  extravagant  plans.  De'  Caroli's  family  was 


14  DITA. 

noble,  but  impoverished  like  himself  by  political  intrigue, 
«o  the  exile  and  his  child  were  at  times  in  actual  need. 

In  the  midst  of  this  poor  and  half-fed  life,  Assunta 
grew  up  and  developed  into  a  lovely  girl.  Her  education 
had  not  been  neglected,  for  her  father  was  a  well-read  man, 
but  it  had  been  careless  and  desultory.  She  was  fond  of 
wandering  in  the  woods  which  covered  the  hills  at  the 
back  of  the  town  of  Strathluan;  she  loved  the  scent  of 
the  fir-trees  and  the  crimson  heather;  and  here  one  day 
she  met  with  Ewan  Macmonach,  his  gun  on  his  shoulder, 
surrounded  by  dogs;  and  again  and  again  would  Ewan  re- 
turn, and  the  dogs  grew  to  know  her  so  well,  that  they 
would  leap  and  fawn  on  her  as  she  came  up  the  path;  and 
when  yellow-haired  Ewan  and  dark-eyed  Assunta  walked 
slowly  "through  the  heather,  the  timid  deer  rejoiced,  for 
they  were  safe. 

Sometimes  De'  Caroli  would  join  them,  but  of  tener  they 
were  alone  and  entertained  each  other  well. 

One  day  Ewan  told  Lady  Grisel  that  he  had  set  his 
heart  on  making  Assunta  his  wife:  her  displeasure  was 
indescribable.  She  was  a  stern  Presbyterian;  her  horror 
of  the  "idolatry  of  Eome  "  was  one  of  the  strongest  feel- 
ings of  her  religion. 

Ewan  was  not  learned,  was  less  clever  than  other  men, 
simple  in  his  tastes,  throwing  away  money  foolishly,  act- 
ing on  impulse,  loving  the  free  open  air,  and  the  exercise 
of  his  herculean  limbs:  he  could  neither  plead  nor  argue; 
his  mother's  bitter  words  and  opposition  hurt  him — her 
threatened  curse  disarmed  him.  Ewan  loved  peace,  and 
in  his  bewildered  grief  he  entreated  Assunta  to  assent  to  a 
private  marriage,  only  to  be  secret  for  a  while,  a  short  while, 
till  he  should  have  brought  his  mother  to  listen  to  his  suit. 
Assunta  loved  him  too  dearly  to  refuse.  Love  of  mystery 
was  one  of  the  curses  of  De' Carol i's  character:  he  knew 
that  his  health  was  failing;  it  was  all-important  to  him 
that  his  daughter  should  be  provided  with  a  home — and 
he  promised  that  if  they  would  leave  all  arrangements  to 
him,  it  should  be  accomplished  with  perfect  secrecy,  and 
without  delay. 

A  very  few  weeks  after  his  daughter's  marriage  the  exile 
died,  and  Assunta  was  not  left  desolate. 

A  whole  year  elapsed,  and  still  Ewan  had  not  told  his 
mother,  and  Assunta  was  so  happy  with  the  husband  she 


D1TA.  15 

loved,  that  she  cared  nothing  for  the  life  of  perfect  seclu- 
sion she  led,  and  asked  for  no  more.  In  the  pride  of  his 
youth  and  strength,  Ewan  was  cut  down,  and  Assunta 
found  herself  left,  at  nineteen  years  old,  a  widow  and 
alone. 

It  was  with  an  anxious  and  sad  heart  that  Master  Mal- 
colm begged  Assunta  to  tell  him  what  she  could  about  her 
marriage. 

"It  is  all-important,  my  child,"  he  said;  "more  im- 
portant than  perhaps  you  think — it  affects  so  many." 

"  Not  so  much  as  it  would  have  done  if  baby  had  been 
a  boy,"  said  Assunta,  leaning  her  head  wearily  on  her 
hand. 

"Boy!  he  is  not  a  boy!"  cried  Master  Malcolm,  in  the 
greatest  astonishment. 

"No;  she  is  a  little  lassie,"  said  Assunta,  sadly. 

"Alas!  alas!"  he  cried,  "all  the  lands  of  Dunmonaigh 
to  go  to  a  girl;  oh!  why  was  she  not  a  boy?" 

"It  is  best  so,"  said  Assunta,  "  for  now  it  will  only  be 
to  give  her  money,  and  Angus  Macmonach  will  still  be  the 
laird." 

Master  Malcolm  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  Not 
so,"  he  said;  "all,  everything  goes  to  the  heir,  be  he  male 
or  female." 

"I  did  not  know,"  faltered  Assunta. 

She  gave  into  the  hands  of  the  Minister  a  desk  in  which 
Ewan  had  been  wont  to  keep  a  few  treasures,  which  she 
had  sent  for  from  Strathluan. 

"Here,  Padre — Master  Malcolm  I  mean — in  here  you 
will  find  my  proofs." 

The  Minister  turned  the  rusty  little  key  in  its  lock,  and 
opened  the  desk.  The  contents  were  motley  enough. 
Two  gorgeous  salmon-flies,  a  roll  of  wire,  all  unraveled  and 
twisted  about  everything  else.  There  was  a  packet  marked 
in  Ewan's  school-boy  hand,  "Letters  from  Assunta." 
There  was  a  child's  india-rubber  ring;  and  quite  in  the 
back,  a  roll  of  papers  done  up  tightly  and  fusr.enc'd  round 
with  a  green  ribbon,  the  knot  of  which  was  carefully 
sealed.  A  bunch  of  labels  were  fastened  tothesea.l.  The 
Minister  took  them  and  read  them  one  by  one. 

"Attested  copy  of  marriage  certificate,  taken  from  half- 
burnt  register,  after  the  burning  of  St.  Agnes's."  The 


16  DITA. 

next — "  Baptismal  cert  iflcate  of  Margaret  Griselda. "   Both 
were  dated.     The  third  simply — "  My  will." 

"  What  does  this  mean??'*said  the  Minister.  "  In  what 
church  were  you  married?" 

"In  the  Roman  Catholic  chapel  at  Strathochie,  which 
was  burnt  down  last  year." 

"And  the  registers  were  destroyed.  Is  the  clergyman 
who  married  you  to  be  found?" 

"Alas,  no!"  answered  Assunta,  the  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes;  "  he  died  about  a  month  after  the  baptism 
of  the  child.  He  was  a  dear  friend  to  me." 

"  Who  were  witnesses  of  the  ceremony,  my  poor  child?" 

"My  father." 

"Dead  also,"  muttered  the  Minister;  "and  who  else?" 

"The  sacristan  of  St.  Agnes's — he  has  left  Strathochie 
now." 

The  Minister  looked  very  grave.  "What  would  you 
have  me  to  do?"  he  said;  "  shall  I  open  these  papers  and 
make  an  examination  of  them?  I  will  act  according  to 
your  wishes." 

"No,"  answered  Assunta.  "When  Ewan  put  them 
there,  he  said  they  were  meant  for  his  mother's  hands.  I 
would  rather  that  no  one  but  Lady  Grisel  should  break 
the  seal.  Do  you  believe  my  story,  Master  Malcolm?"  she 
cried,  suddenly.  "  You  do  believe  me?  Will  you  hc'p 
me?" 

"  I  do — I  believe  it  all.  The  young  laird  was  very  dear 
to  me,"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  across*hiseyes;  "  I  never 
knew  him  deceive  man,  woman  or  child — the  only  gift  he 
inherited  from  my  Lady  Grisel;  but,  alas!  this  lias  been 
a  mad  concealment.  Do  not  fear,  I  believe  yon,  my  child;" 
and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  young  widow's  shoulders,  and 
therewith  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Was  not  Presbyterian 
nature  woful  at  this  Papist  alliance? 
t  Assunta  cared  not  for  the  sigh;  she  impulsively  kissed 
the  hand  of  the  Minister,  who  withdrew  it  hastily. 

"We  must  give  these  papers  to  Lady  Grisel,"  he  said. 
"  You  shall  accompany  me  to  Dnnmonaigh  to-morrow, 
that  she  may  open  them  in  our  presence  with  all  for- 
mality." 

"To-morrow!  so  soon!"  cried  Assunta,  shrinking. 

"  It  should  be  done  at  once;  meantime,  for  safety,  they 
had  best  be  left  in  my  drawer;  that  is  but  a  feeble  guard 


Bit A.  1? 

for  so  precious  a  packet,"  he  said,  looking  at  poor  As- 
sun tu's  little  leather  desk. 

"It  will  be  safer  there,"  she  answered,  looking  at  the 
strong  wooden  table;  and  she  returned  up-slairs  to  her 
little  child,  her  one  comfort  and  help  in  this  dark  hour  of 
her  life. 

The  Minister  sat  by  his  table,  with  his  head  leaning  on 
his  hand,  wrapped  in  melancholy  thought-.  The  drawer 
was  open,  and  as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  packet,  he  sighed 
more  heavily  than  ever.  "It  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to 
Lady  Grisel,"  he  reflected.  "  It  will  almost  crush  her — 
•for  t  cannot  doubt  this  story." 

He  sat  thus  when  the  door  opened,  and  Kerenhappuch 
announced  "Mr.  Angus,  Minister,"  and  Angus  Macmon- 
ach  walked  in.  His  look  was  so  disturbed,  and  his  face 
BO  pale,  that  Master  Malcolm  did  not  notice  his  omission 
of  customary  salutation.  He  sat  down,  and  rushed  with 
painful  eagerness  into  the  subject  of  his  visit. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Malcolm,"  he  said,  "  this  story  is  all  a  lie, 
is  it  not?  Is  the  girl  still  here?  You  shall  be  no  loser  by 
your  charity.  We  will  do  what  we  can  to  help  her " 

"  Hold,"  said  the  Minister,  gravely;  "  this  is  a  graver 
matter  than  you  wot  of,  I  believe  in  her  story." 

Angus  began  to  pace  up  and  down.  "Believe  in  it, 
Minister!  a  man  of  sense  and  experience  like  yourself  to 
give  credit  to  so  transparent  an  imposture!  you  do  not  do 
yourself  justice." 

"  I  have  known  this  girl  and  her  father  for  many  years: 
they  are  no  impostors,  but  well-born  gentlefolks — albeit 
Papists,"  he  added,  below  his  breath. 

"  But—  Ewan " 

"  Your  brother  never  did  a  dishonorable  action,  nor  told 
a  lie  in  his  life/'  interrupted  the  Minister. 

"Pshaw!"  said  Angus,  impatiently.  "What  means 
have  you  of  knowing?" 

"  But  I  have  papers  by  me." 

"Papers!"  cried  Angus,  eagerly.  "They  are  not 
proofs?" 

"  They  are  here,"  said  the  Minister,  and  he  proceeded 
to  read  the  labels  aloud. 

"  Give  me  that  packet — I  have  a  right  to  open  and  ex- 
amine it." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Master  Malcolm,  replacing  the  packef 


18  MIA. 

in  the  drawer  and  turning  the  key.  "  JSTo  one  may  toucli 
them  but  Lady  Grisel,  your  mother,  and  that  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mistress  Macmonach  and  myself." 

Then  Angus  swore  a  violent  oath;  the  Minister's  face 
grew  pale  with  displeasure. 

"  Angus  Macmonach,"  he  said,  "no  evil  words  will  un- 
do what  is  done." 

Angus  flung  himself  into  a  chair. 

"Would  the  girl  hear  of  a  compromise?"  he  asked. 

"  You  can  ask  her,"  said  Master  Malcolm.  "  But  no! 
do  not  so  insult  her." 

"  Yon  have  no  pity  for  me,"  cried  Angus,  suddenly 
changing  his  tone..  "You  think  only  of  this  upstart 
woman  and  her  child,  who  would  ruin  my  dearest  hopes  " 

"  I  do  pity  you,  Angus,"  said  the  Minister,  "and  would 
give  the  best  years  of  my  life  that  this  had  never  been; 
but  justice  must  be  done,  though  to  see  a  Papist  in  your 
mother's  place  would  go  near  to  break  my  heart." 

"  It  must  not,  it  shall  not  be!"  cried  Angus.  "I  will 
offer  her  money — anything  rather  than  that." 

"  You  must  not  while  the  matter  is  still  uncertain;  that 
were  the  worst  course  you  could  take." 

"Would  to  heaven  that  it  were  uncertain!"  said  Angus, 
and  ere  the  words  had  left  his  lips,  he  repented  of  them; 
again  he  paced  up  and  down.  The  Minister  began  to 
wonder  where  this  would  end.  when,  unwittingly  of  who 
was  within,  Assunta  entered  the  room. 

Seeing  Angus,  she  stood  still,  clasping  her  child,  her 
large  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and  in  her  whole  manner  and 
rnicn  were  a  dignity  and  innate  nobleness  for  which  he 
was  not  prepared;  but  it  was  life  or  death  to  him,  and  he 
would  not  spare  her. 

The  Minister  shrank  back  as  though  he  were  guilty;  he 
could  not  bear  to  see  the  shaft  wing  its  way  home  in  that 
quivering  heart. 

"  Madam,"  said  Angus,  and  his  voice  was  low,  each 
word  dropping  with  a  cruel  distinctness — "Lady  Grisel 
and  myself  are  desirous  of  knowing  how  much  money  will 
induce  you  to  withdraw  your  claims." 

Assunta  looked  at  him,  and  as  the  meaning  of  his  words 
slowly  entered  her  mind,  every  trace  of  color  receded  from 
cheek  and  lips,  leaving  her  white  as  marble.  Shedeigned 
no  answer,  but  he  heard  the  click  of  her  small  teeth  to- 


DITA.  19 

gether.  Angus  never  forgot  the  look  she  gave  him;  and 
she  turned  and  left  the  room. 

To  her  dying  day  she  spoke  to  no  one  of  that  scene,  but 
she  went  dowu  to  the  kitchen,  and  putting  down  her  child, 
she  took  hold  of  Kerenhappuch's  hands, 

"  Huppie,"  she  said-*-"  Huppie!"  and  so  fell  into  a 
violent  fit  of  trembling  and  shivering,  lying  cold  as  ice, 
with  chattering  teeth,  for  hours. 

'•  So  you  will  not  let  me  see  those  papers?"  were  An- 
gus's  last  words  as  he  quitted  the  Minister's  house. 

"  To-tnorrow  you  shall  all  see  them,  and  doubts  will  be 
set  at  rest,"  answered  Master  Malcolm;  and  Angus  went 
home  yet  more  anxious  than  he  came. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  Dunmonaigh.  old-fashioned  laws  were  kept,  and  by 
half-past  ten  every  inmate  of  the  house  was  in  bed,  and 
the  doors  barred  and  chained;  but  on  the  night  of  the  day 
after  Ewan  Macmonach's  funeral,  some  one  was  stirring 
even  at  midnight. 

The  night  was  very  fine.  The  loch  lay  like  a  sheet  of 
silver  in  the  light  of  the  moon;  there  was  not  a  ripple  on 
its  surface — not  a  cloud  on  the  purple  sky. 

Secretly  and  softly  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  Angus  Mac- 
monach  opened  the  little  door,  descended  the  steps  to  the 
boat,  and  pushed  off  into  the  silent  loch.  Eacli  little 
splash,  as  the  oars  touched  the  water  and  dashed  back 
glittering  showers,  struck  him  as  unnaturally  loud,  but 
not  a  light  shone  in  the  windows  of  the  old  house;  black 
and  silent  rose  the  tower,  the  numerous  turrets  and  bat- 
tlemented  walls,  and  high  up  hung  sullenly  half-mast 
high  the  great  flag. 

Swiftly  flew  the  little  boat:  Angus's  foot  touched  the 
opposite  shore,  ami  wrapping  his  plaid  round  his  breast, 
he  mounted  the  hill. 

In  the  manse  all  likewise  slept — Assunta  with  her 
child  in  her  arms,  worn  out  with  weeping  and  sorrow. 
No  one  h'eard  stealthy  movements  below.  The  manse 
was  never  barred  nor  locked  up  atniglit.  "There  are  no 
robbers  here,"  Master  Malcolm  would  say;  "and  should 
robbers  come,  here  is  nothing  to  rob:"  so  without  let  or 


20  DITA. 

hinderance  Angus  found  himself  alone  in  the  Minister's 
room. 

It  was  bitterly  cold,  but  he  wiped  the  drops  from  his 
brow  as  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  bunch  of  keys 
and  knelt  down  by  the  table.  A  great  luminous  star 
shone  down  on  his  deed,  and  throbbed  in  the  cloudless 
sky:  between  him  and  the  eye  of  God  was  no  cloud  or 
shadow  to  hide  him. 

lie  tried  one  key  after  another — would  none  fit?  yet  the 
lock  was  a  common  one.  Another  and  yet  another;  at 
last,  with  a  loud  crack  which  made  Angus  vibrate  from 
head  to  foot,  the  lock  flew  back  and  the  packet  was  be- 
fore his  eyes.  Quickly  and  softly  he  unrolled  its  folds  by 
the  light  of  the  gleaming  moon;  he  took  out  the  precious 
papers;  he  thrust  in  blank  sheets  instead;  retied  the 
green  ribbon  and  labels.  Angus  must  strike  a  light: 
how  loud  the  match  sounded!  it  thrilled  him  through  and 
through.  All  had  been  thought  of — the  red  wax  was 
pressed  down,  and  he  bent  over  and  sealed  it  anew  with 
his  brother's  ring. 

The  baby  moved  restlessly  in  her  sleep,  and  Assunta 
pressed  her  closer,  half  opening  her  weary  eyes. 

"Hush,  hush,  darling!  sweet  little  one,  sleep!  God 
watches  over  the  fatherless  and  widow." 

Swiftly  the  little  boat  crossed  the  loch  again,  and  there 
was  no  movement  or  light  in  the  windows  of  Dunmon- 
aigh. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ASSUXTA  rose  on  the  following  day  with  the  heavy 
weight  on  her  heart  of  one  about  to  go  through  a  painful 
ordeal.  She  could  scarcely  touch  the  food  Kerenhappuch 
placed  before  her;  and  as  the  time  for  their  going  to 
Dunmonaigh  approached,  she  grew  hourly  paler  and  paler. 

Early  in  the  morning  Master  Malcolm  had  sent  over  a 

messenger  to   Lady  Grisel    asking  her  at  what  hour  it 

would  suit  her  to  receive  them,  and  the  answer  came  that 

at  mid-day  would  be  best;  so  when  the  sun  was  rising 

'i  the  heavens  they  started  together. 

Assunta  had  need  of  the  good  Minister's  arm,  for  never 
had  road  seemed  so  long  or  so  rough.  An  unspoken  feel- 


DITA.  21 

ing  made  Master  Malcolm  choose  to  go  by  the  road  rather 
than  by  the  loch.  It  seemed  to  his  simple  mind  that, 
humble  as  she  might  be,  E\van  Macmonach's  wife  should 
enter  her  husband's  home  by  its  principal  entrance  with 
all  dignity. 

Long  as  the  way  seemed  at  first,  Assunta  thought  it  all 
too  short  when  they  stood  before  the  great  doors. 

'•'  Courage,  my  child — summon  up  all  your  courage,"  said 
her  kind  friend;  and  he  rang  the  bell,  which  resounded 
through  the  house. 

In  one  short  moment  they  found  themselves  in  the 
presence  of  Lady  Grisel  and  her  son. 

They  were  sitting  at  the  end  of  a  long  library;  the 
blinds  were  still  drawn,  and  the  dark  furniture  of  the 
room,  witli  its  tiers  upon  tiers  of  old  books,  gave  it  a 
gloomy  aspect. 

Lady  Grisel  rose  from  her  seat  when  she  saw  them,  and 
saluted  them  gravely.  She  was  above  the  ordinary  height, 
and  moved  with  much  dignity.  Assunta's  appealing  eyes 
found  no  response  in  hers:  she  sought  in  them  for  sym- 
pathy, and  could  scarcely  believe  that  she  would  find 
none;  there  was  no  gentleness  in  the  beautiful,  stern  face 
of  Ewan's  mother,  and  the  girl  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  stood  silent. 

Angus  did  not  rise  when  they  came  in,  but  sat  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  studiously  endeavoring  to  appear  a  mere 
spectator  of  the  scene. 

Lady  Grisel  desired  both  to  be  seated,  and  then  leaning 
forward  with  one  elbow  on  the  table  she  began — 

"  Master  Malcolm,  in  a  matter  of  vital  importance  such 
as  this  is,  we  will  lose  no  time  in  idle  parley.  I  under- 
stand that  you  consider  that  you  hold  proofs  of  my  son's 
marriage  with  this  lady?" 

The  Minister  bowed. 

"This  lady  will  not  object,"  resumed  Lady  Grisel,  "to 
answering  what  questions  I  may  see  fit  to  make  before  we 
proceed  to  examine  her  papers?" 

"  No,"  said  Assunta,  putting  back  the  dark  hair  from 
her  brow,  and  raising  her  face;  "  I  will  answer  all  that 
you  ask  me." 

"  At  what  church  did  this  ceremony  take  place?" 

"At  St.  Agnes's  Catholic  chapel  in  Strathochie." 

"And  who  were  the  witnesses;"' 


22  DITA. 

'My  father  and  the  sacristan.'' 

'  And  they  only  signed  the  register?" 

<  They  only." 

'What  day  was  this?" 

'  The  tenth  of  September  last  }'ear." 

Lady  Grisel  glanced  at  a  little  memorandum-book  she 
held  in  her  hand  and  slightly  started:  she  continued — 

"  And  after  the  marriage  did  you  return  to  Strath- 
luan?" 

"No,  we  went  north  into  the  hills  to  Glentyre." 

Again  Lady  Grisel  glanced  at  her  book,  and  saw  re- 
corded a  letter  from  Ewan,  dated  from  Glentyre,  whither, 
he  said,  he  had  gone  for  the  purchase  of  dogs. 

"  Did  my  son  make  any  purchases  at  Glentyre?"  she 
asked. 

t(  Yes;  he  bought  Beaver  and  Raven,  the  two  retriev- 
ers." 

"How  long  did  you  stay  there?" 

"  Till  the  thirtieth  of  that  month;  when  Evvan  returned, 
he  said  there  were  guests  at  Duumouaigh." 

Lady  Grisel  sat  thinking. 

"  How  old  is  your  child?"  she  said,  suddenly. 

"Five  months  old." 

"  And  what  is  her  name?" 

"  Margaret  Griselda." 

A  momentary  flash  of  emotion  passed  over  Lady  Grisel's 
face  as  she  heard  her  own  name. 

"This  is  vain  talk  after  all,  she  said.  "  Give  me  the 
papers." 

Assunta  held  out  the  roll,  labeled,  and  bound  with  its 
green  ribbon.  She  felt  very  faint,  as  though  the  room 
•whirled  round  and  round. 

"  No  hand  but  yours  should  open  it,"  she  said. 
"  Ewan  trusted  you,  Lady  Grisel,  as  he  never  could  trust 
another." 

Then  she  sat  back  watching  the  papers  that  held  her 
fate,  with  clasped  hands  and  blanched  lips. 

Angus  rose  suddenly  and  put  his  hand  on  the  packet; 
he  bent  down,  and  examined  it  closely. 

"  That  is  without  doubt  my  brother's  seal,"  he  said. 
"That  is  quite  right;"  and  he  slipped  the  ring  from  his 
finger  and  placed  it  over  the  impression  of  the  seal. 


DITA.  23 

Lady  Grisel  was  about  to  open  it,  when  one*  more  he 
stopped  her. 

"  Would  it  not  be  wiser  and  more  just  to  this  lady,"  he 
said,  "  that  there  should  be  independent  witnesses  to  this 
transaction?" 

Assunta  bowed  her  head — she  could  scarcely  speak. 
Lady  Grisel  seemed  struck  with  what  he  said,  and  prayed 
Master  Malcolm  to  ring  the  bell.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
minutes  were  hours  that  elapsed  before  the  butler  and 
housekeeper  and  Lady  Grisel's  own  woman  stood  to- 
gether in  a  line,  adding  to  the  strangeness  of  the  scene. 

Lady  Grisel's  voice  did  not  falter  as  she  explained 
shortly — 

"It  is  said  that  the  laird  was  married,  and  that  this 
lady  is  his  wife.  In  proof  of  this  she  has  put  into  my 
hands  these  papers  to  be  examined  before  witnesses;"  and 
she  read  the  labels  aloud. 

"  So  great  was  the  silence,  that  all  started  when  the 
seal  cracked  and  gave  way;  and  slowly  Lady  Grisel  un- 
wound the  green  ribbon.  One  by  one  the  labels  unloosed, 
fluttered  to  the  ground;  with  a  loud  rustle  the  paper  un- 
rolled. One  glance  of  her  eye  was  enough — they  were 
blank  paper.  Still  Lady  Grisel  turned  them  from  side  to 
side,  and  backward  and  forward.  The  Minister  started 
up;  a  faint  smile  had  come  over  the  faces  of  the  impartial 
spectators,  and  Angus  gave  a  low,  jarring  laugh.  Assunta 
had  sat  still  with  her  head  turned  aside,  and  saw  not  the 
strange  looks  they  were  casting  at  her;  but  at  the  sound 
of  the  laugh  she  turned  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

Not  yet  did  the  cruel  truth  force  itself  on  her  belief; 
she  spoke  not,  but  went  down  on  her  knees  on  the  ground, 
and  scanned  every  sheet  of  the  paper— up  and  down,  in- 
side and  out — all  was  white  and  blunk.  Then  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  with  gleaming  eyes;  pushing  back  the  cluster- 
ing hair,  and  leaning  against  the  wall,  she  stood  with 
panting  breath,  as  stands  a  noble  young  stag  at  bay. 

At  first  no  one  spoke,  but  Master  Malcolm  stole  gently 
to  her  side,  and,  would  she  have  allowed  it,  would  hav« 
drawn  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

Angus  broke  silence  at  last.  "You  see,  mother,"  he 
said,  "  we  were  wise  to  invite  witnesses  to  attest  these 
most  binding  proofs.  You  can  go  now,"  he  said  to  thft 
butler  and  the  women;  but  Lady  Grisel  bade  them  stay, 


24  DITA. 

and  she  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  Assunta,  hold  ing  out 
her  hand. 

"Let  all  hear  what  I  say,"  she  said:  "had  I  not  seen 
these  with  my  own  eyes/'  and  she  pointed  to  the  papers, 
"  I  could  not  have  believed  that  son  of  mine  could  have 
been  so  base  a  villain." 

"  It  is  not  so!"  cried  Assunta.  "  It  is  a  lie!  some  one 
has  deceived  me!  You  his  mother,  who  knew  well  what 
he  was,  tell  me  it  is  not  true!  believe  the  evidence  of 
your  own  heart!  Ewan  never  deceived  me!  there  has 
been  some  treachery  here!  0  God!  how  shall  I  prove  my 
husband's  truth?" 

Her  words  came  forth  with  panting  breath,  and  she 
pressed  her  hands  on  her  heart,  to  control  the  violence  of 
its  beating. 

As  Lady  Grisel  watched  her,  a  burning  flush  of  shame 
came  over  her  face — shame  for  her  son;  she  held  out  her 
hand  again,  and  hot  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  she  said.  "Would  to 
heaven  I  had  died  ere  I  had  seen  this,  day!" 

Assunta  seized  her  hand  tightly  in  both  her  own,  which 
were  burning,  and  she  looked  into  Lady  GrisePsface  with 
a  wild,  imploring  look. 

"  You  are  kind  to  me  now,"  she  cried.  "  Why  have 
you  changed  to  me?  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 
and  she  flung  away  the  hand  she  held,  and  raising  her 
arms,  she  cried — 

"I  swear  by  the  God  above  us!  by  my  dead  husband! 
by  all  we  hold  sacred  in  heaven  or  earth,  that  I  am  Ewan 
Macmonach's  wife!" 

One  by  one  the  servants  had  stolen  sway;  Angus  had 
again  sunk  into  his  chair,  and  was  looking  on  very  white, 
hiding  his  quivering  lips  with  one  hand. 

The  Minister  laid  his  hand  on  Assunta's  shoulder. 
"  Come  with  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  coming,"  she  answered;  and  kneeling  down,  she 
gathered  together  all  the  papers  and  wound  the  ribbons 
and  labels  round  them. 

"  These  are  all  the  justice  that  is  for  me,"  she  said,  and 
turned  to  the  door. 

With  swift  steps  Lady  Grisel  followed  her  and  caught 
her  gown. 

"Forgive,"  she  said,  faintly, 


DITA.  25 

Assunta's  whole  faee  changed  to  an  expression  of  deadly 
terror. 

"Forgive!"  she  cried;  "you  ask  me  to  forgive!  Then 
it  must  be  true!  and  he  has  been  false  to  me!  false  as  hell 
itself!  and  I  am  undone!"  and  she  turned  and  fled  from 
the  house — fled  along  the  road  as  if  terror  and  anguish 
had  lent  her  wings. 

"Oh,  follow  her!  follow  her,  Master  Malcolm!"  cried 
Lady  Grisel.  "  All  that  I  can  I  will  do  for  her  and  her 
child:  you  will  be  their  friend?" 

As  the  Minister  went  out,  Lady  Grisel  bent  her  head 
and  wept  more  bitter  tears  than  she  had  done  over  the 
burying  of  her  first-born  son. 

When  Master  Malcolm  reached  home,  he  found  Keren- 
happnch  waiting  for  him  at  the  door. 

"  So  he's  deceived  the  puir  lass,  Master  Malcolm!"  she 
cried;  "I  couldna  hae  believed  that  siccan  a  bonny  lad 
could  hae  so  black  and  fause  a  heart.  She's  daft  wi'  the 
news,  puir  body." 

The  Minister  shook  his  head  sorrowfully. 

"I  take  it,  it  was  a'  a  pretense,  Minister — the  marriage 
and  a'?" 

"Ay,  Huppie,  never  was  woman  so  cruelly  deceived. 
What  is  she  doing  now?" 

"She  sits  by  the  fire  and  doesna  move,  and  she  neither 
greets  nor  manes;  her  wits  are  clean  gane." 

"  Poor  soul — poor  soul!"  and  the  Minister  went  up  to 
pray.  He  held  it  best  to  pray  first  and  to  strive  to  com- 
fort by-and-by. 

But  in  the  night,  when  all  were  asleep,  Assunta  took 
her  child  in  her  arms  and  arose;  she  put  bread  in  her 
pocket,  and  wrapped  a  plaid  round  the  child  and  fled. 
Down  the  highroad  she  walked,  and  an  unnatural  strength 
seemed  to  bear  her  up. 

For  about  ten  yards  the  highroad  hung  over  the  loch. 
Assunta  looked  down  into  its  quiet  waters,  so  still  and 
deep — and  she  clasped  her  child  and  thought  of  the  rest, 
of  the  peace,  under  the  cold  water — escape  for  both  from 
this  cruel  world,  but  the  child  opened  her  eyes  and  As- 
sunta moaned  and  went  on  her  way.  Some  miles  further 
on  the  road  she  would  wait  for  the  coach  which  would 
bear  h»r  thence,  nevtr  to  corn«  back — never,  never  more, 


26  DITA. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  snow  had  fallen  thick  and  fast,  and  all  the  ground 
round  the  manse  lay  under  a  white  unbroken  sheet. 

The  manse  stood  at  the  brow  of  a  hill,  bleak  and  very 
cold  without,  but  it  was  so  warmly  thatched  that  it  was 
comfortable  enough  within.  The  path  which  led  up  to 
the  door  had  not  been  swept,  and  the  deep  snow  impeded 
Lady  Grisel's  steps  as  she  mounted  the  hill.  Her  face 
had  grown  older  and  more  careworn  during  the  two 
months  that  had  elapsed  since  Ewan's  death,  and  her 
eyes  would  often  look  fixed  and  troubled.  The  spirits  of 
the  past  were  often  with  her,  and  their  faces  were  mourn- 
ful, and  their  gestures  reproachful,  and  she  could  not 
throw  off  the  spell.  As  she  slowly  followed  the  path,  they 
were  pressing  their  old  memories  on  her,  and  she  longed 
for  the  healer  Time  to  speed  faster  on  his  way — for  an- 
other year  to  have  driven  them  further  back.  There  was 
no  sweetness  in  their  presence  to  her.  She  had  not  valued 
her  husband  and  her  eldest  son  as  all  around  had  done; 
she  had  felt  herself  to  be  strong  and  capable,  and  was 
full  of  ambition;  and  she  was  young  when  she  married; 
her  husband  was  rich,  very  handsome,  and  beloved  by  all, 
and  she  looked  for  great  things  anjd  found  nothing. 
Horses  and  dogs  were  his  delight;  his  business  to  see  that 
all  were  happy  and  spoilt;  his  religion  a  simple  and  child- 
like faith.  She  had  married  an  ideal,  a  creation  of  her 
own  imagination,  and  the  awakening  made  her  think  her- 
self deceived.  Her  husband  loved  her  dearly  at  first;  but 
though  he  was  neither  clever  nor  brilliant,  he  saw  that 
she  was  disappointed  in  him,  and  that  she  looked  down 
upon  him,  soon  ceasing  to  love  him;  but,  self-absorbed, 
she  never  guessed  that  he  too  had  to  fight  a  battle  with 
himself,  generously  hidden  from  her  knowledge.  Not  till 
the  day  of  his  death  did  he  show  the  hidden  bitterness: 
when  she  was  bending  over  him,  he  turned  from  her  with 
a  movement  almost  like  a  child's;  he  put  his  arms  around 
Ewan's  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  We  two  have 
loved  each  other,"  and  so  died,  holding  the  lad's  hand  in 
bis  own. 


DITA.  27 

Afterward,  when  she  would  fain  have  begun  a  new 
career  for  herself  and  her  sons,  she  found  that  she  was  not 
so  rich  as  she  had  thought,  so  much  had  drifted  away — 
large  loans  to  poor  kinsfolk,  rents  forgiven  and  lowered, 
pensions,  and  bills  backed  for  other  men.  Had  she  not 
been  justified  in  her  estimate  of  one  so  weak?  Ewau  had 
been  just  the  same. 

On  Angus  she  had  placed  her  hopes;  he  was  clever  and 
shrewd — he  would  some  day  do  great  things.  But  she 
was  but  a  woman  after  all,  and  seeing  the  intense  love 
that  bound  her  husband  and  Ewan  together,  sometimes  she 
felt  a  yearning  for  a  little  of  such  love,  but  Angus  was 
too  selfish,  and  she  herself  too  reserved.  When  another 
year  should  have  passed,  the  proportions  of  her  life  would 
again  become  true;  had  she  been  able  she  would  have 
drunk  deeply  of  the  waters  of  Lethe.  The  Minuter  \vas 
sitting  in  his  little  room  when  Lady  Grisel  came  in.  Ho 
placed  a  chair  for  her  by  the  low  peat-fire  and  helped  to 
remove  her  fur  cloak. 

'"  I  am  still  very  unhappy,  my  old  friend,"  she  began. 

"  Ah!  the  loss  of  such  a  son,  Lady  Grisel." 

She  waved  her  hand.  "That  was  God's  will,  Master 
Malcolm,"  she  said,  "and  must  be  borne:  it  is  about 
Assuntu  that  I  have  come  to  you,"  and  the  tears  started 
to  her  eyes.  "The  older  I  grow,"  she  said,  "the  more 
does  the  sadness  of  life  strikes  me.  God  knows  it  is  a  very 
sad  thing.  We  are  endowed  with  ambition  that  we  may 
see  its  disappointment,  and  may  taste  the  bitterness  of  its 
defeat;  we  are  given  the  power  of  passionate  love,  and  it 
is  misplaced,  or  denied,  or  transformed  into  anguish  by 
bereavement.  The  golden  apples  of  knowledge,  like  the 
Dead  Sea  fruit,  turn  to  ashes  between  our  teeth;  our  dear- 
est friend  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain:  we  are 
struggling  through  a  tangled  and  intricate  web." 

"Yes,  Lady  Grisel;  but  do  not  forget,  the  workmen 
work  the  tapestry  of  life  from  behind,  weaving  a  thousand 
unpatterned  threads:  not  till  the  work  is  consummated, 
not  till  heaven  is  reached,  shall  we  see  face  to  face  that 
every  man  who  has  labored  in  the  gigantic  loom  has  dene 
his  part  in  God's  glorious  design."  Lady  Grisel  looked 
thoughtful. 

"  There  are  times  when  courage  fails,  Minister,"  she  said. 


28  DITA. 

"We  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight,"  he  said  rery 
gently. 

She  was  silent  for  one  moment,  then  raising  herself, 
she  said — 

"  I  am  anxious  about  that  poor  girl." 

"Have  yon  heard  from  her,  Lady  Grisel?" 

"  Alas,  no!  it  is  not  likely  that  she  would  write  to  me, 
after  what  she  said  to  you  in  Edinburgh.  You  are  sure 
of  her  address?" 

"  Quite  sure;  when  I  traced  her  there,  she  promised 
always  to  let  me  know  where  she  was." 

11  Is  she  still  in  Edinburgh?" 

"  No,  she  has  gone  to  London." 

"To  London!  alone!"  exclaimed  Lady  Grisel. 

"  She  would  not  listen  to  me,"  he  answered.  "  Her 
one  only  wish  and  hope  was  to  hide  herself  away  from  all 
who  had  ever  known  or  seen  her." 

"Had  she  money,  Master  Malcolm?" 

"  She  had  some,  but  she  would  not  tell  me  how  much; 
it  is  useless  to  ask  her  to  accept  it,  Lady  Grisel — she 
will  not." 

"  Alas!  it  is  all  I  could  do  for  her." 

"I  am  thankful,  dear  lady,  that  you  would  be  her 
friend." 

"She  was  most  basely  deceived,  Minister;  it  seems 
even  now  most  hard  to  credit  it." 

"Alas!"  said  Master  Malcolm,  "who  knoweth  the 
wickedness  of  the  human  heart?" 

"  But  I  thought  I  knew  him  so  well — I  was  deceived. 
And  yet,  strange  to  say,  I  cannot  believe  it,  or  give  credit 
to  the  evidence  of  my  tnvn  eyes — I  cannot  believe  it." 

The  Minister  grasped  Lady  Grisel's  hand,  and  brushed 
away  a  tear. 

"God  knows,"  he  said,  "that  had  I  one  inch  of 
ground  on  which  to  base  my  faith  in  Ewan's  truth,  I 
would  proclaim  it  as  a  trumpet-peal  to  heaven." 

"  You  say  that  all  trace  of  the  chapel  is  gone,  the  priest 
dead,  the  sacristan  emigrated,  and  no  one  knows  what  has 
become  of  the  register?" 

"It  is  all  too  true." 

"And  her  papers  were  all  blank;  it  is  useless  to  doubt 
longer." 

"  What  more  can  I  do,  Lady  Grisel?" 


DITA.  29 

Lady  Grisel  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  she  put  her 
hand  lightly  on  the  Minister's  arm  and  said — 

"I  hardly  like  to  propose  it  to  yon,  but  you  are  her 
only  friend." 

"  Would  you  have  me  follow  her  to  London?"  said  the 
Minister. 

"I  would;  we  know  how  utterly  friendless  she  is:  if  she 
will  not  accept  the  money,  there  are  a  thousand  ways  in 
which  we  may  help  her  still.  You  could  find  employ- 
ment, fictitious  employment  from  me  if  you  will,  to  be 
doubly  paid;  but  this  can  only  be  done  when  you  are, 
there,  when  you  see  whether  she  be  driven  to  great  straits 
or  not.  Perhaps  her  Italian  relations  may  be  willing  to 
take  her  home;  that  would  be  best  of  all." 

The  Minister  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  She  would  rather  die  than  let  them  know  what  has 
befallen,"  he  said.  ''1  had  not  thought  to  find  such  a 
passionate,  determined  nature  in  one  I  had  supposed  so 
gentle.  I  would  follow  her  with  all  my  heart:  but  jnst 
now,  having  been  to  Edinburgh  but  a  month  ago,  I  have 
much  business,  and,  truth  to  say " 

The  Minister  hesitated,  and  a  blush  spread  itself  over 
his  hard-featured  face;  he  could  not  acknowledge,  even 
to  so  old  a  friend,  that  to  make  such  a  journey  was  far 
beyond  his  means:  not  a  week  before,  Michael,  the  ne'er- 
do-weel  of  the  village,  had  come  hack  from  prison,  Mas- 
ter Malcolm  fondly  hoped,  an  altered  man.  and  it  had 
taken  a  round  sum  of  money  to  start  him  afresh  in  a  new 
and  congenial  trade;  so  in  spite  of  Kerenhappuch's  loud 
remonstrances  and  heavy  sighs,  the  good  man  had  had  but 
little  meat  to  his  porridge  of  late. 

'*  Truth  to  say,"  he  hesitated,  and  patted  his  knees  and 
rubbed  back  his  rough  gray  hair. 

"Then  you  will  not  go,  and  seek  for  this  poor  child?" 
said  Lady  Grisel,  and  there  was  somewhat  of  condemna- 
tion in  her  voice. 

"It  is  not  want  of  will,"  he  began  again;  "  but  rather 
that  at  this  moment  other  matters 

Lady  Grisel  knew  well  the  innate  pride  of  the  man  with 
whom  she  was  dealing,  and  the  thought  of  the  real  reason 
flashed  across  her  suddenly,  but  she  was  careful  not  to 
betray  herself. 

"  Well,  well," she  said,  "you  must  take  your  own  way. 


30  DITA. 

The  harvest  has  been  so  bad  these  two  years,  Master 
Malcolm,  that  I  fear  there  is  much  poverty  abroad." 

"Not  so  much,"  he  answered,  "for  the  winter  is  mild, 
and  but  few  of  the  sheep  have  suffered." 

"There  is  much  poverty,"  she  insisted.  "And  because 
I  feel  it  so,  Minister,  I  will  desire  you  to  spend  forty 
pounds  for  me — not  for  the  very  poorest,  but  on  such  as 
your  discretion  shall  judge  to  be  most  in  need;  nor  would 
I  confine  my  alms  to  the  parish  only,  should  there  be  any 
beyond  its  bounds." 

Master  Malcolm  put  out  his  hand  and  shook  Lady 
Gnsd's  without  a  word.  When  she  rose  to  go,  she  said, 
softly— 

"  When  will  you  start,  Minister?" 

"  To-morrow  by  daybreak.  I  will  take  the  Strathluan 
mail." 

Hnppie  was  sweeping  away  the  snow  from  the  little 
path  up  to  the  house  when  Lady  Grisel  came  out. 

"Master  Malcolm  looks  poorly  to-day," she  said  kindly, 
as  she  passed  the  woman,  and  then  iiuppie'.=  complaints 
burst  out. 

"  He's  no  ill,  my  leddy — it's  no  that;  but  he  eats  no  more 
than  yon  puir  druckit  hen,"  and  she  pointed  to  a  misera- 
ble draggled  fowl  pecking  about  in  the  snow.  "IS'cver  a 
morsel  of  meat  has  he  touched,  and  I  dinna  ken  when  he 
will  take  till't  again.  He's  gien  awa  'ilka  bawbee  we  had 
had  to  a  ne'er-do-weel  that  will  spond  it  a'  in  whisky  and 
sneeshin,  deil  take  him!  and  forgie  me  using  siccan  a 
word.  Na,  na— it's  no  that  he  is  ill." 

"Well,  Kerenhappuch,  if  something  should  come  up 
from  Dunmonaigh,  you  will  say  that  it  was  a  very  fine 
beef,  and  that  I  should  be  glad  of  Master  Malcolm's  opin- 
ion on  it." 

"Ay,  thank  you,  rry  leddy." 

"And  are  you  well  yourself.  Huppie?" 

"  Ou  ay,  my  leddy,  I'm  just  in  my  frail  ordinar." 

As  Lady  Grisel  went  on  her  way  down  the  hillside,  the 
kind  smile  on  her  face  gave  place  to  the  look  of  care  that 
had  now  become  habitual  to  it.  She  met  Angus  on  her 
way,  and  he  turned  and  walked  with  her.  His  mind  was 
full  of  new  schemes  and  projects;  he  would  spend  his 
mornings  over  local  maps,  planning  new  roads  and  bridges, 
choosing  tracts  of  moorland  to  redeem  from  the  waste, 


D1TA.  31 

and  he  now  begun  to  expound  some  new  theory  of  drain- 
age. But  Lady  Grisel  could  not  give  her  mind  to  these 
things  now,  as  she  would  have  done  once;  for  always  be- 
tween her  and  her  rest  was  the  haunting  look  of  Ewan's 
blue  eyes,  and  the  thought  of  Assunta's  despair. 

Several  times,  craving  for  sympathy,  she  had  spoken  to 
Angus  about  Assuntu,  but  he  heard  her  with  visible  im- 
patience, and  with  a  troubled  look,  that  she  attributed 
to  a  sensitive  horror  of  the  disgrace  that  had  stained  his 
brothers  name.  To-day  she  began  once  more,  but  he  in- 
terrupted her,  irritably — 

"  Why  tell  me  what  I  have  no  wish  to  hear?"  he  said, 
with  his  cane  cutting  off  the  heads  of  the  bracken.  She 
was  distressed  at  his  manner,  and  looking  at  him  tenderly, 
she  said — 

"  Are  yon  not  well,  Angus?" 

"  I  am" all  right,"  he  answered,  impatiently;  "  but  I  am 
harassed  and  worried  by  all  I  have  to  do." 

She  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THERE  was  a  thick  fog  in  London  when  Master  Mal- 
colm arrived,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  nothing  could  be 
more  dreary.  He  put  up  at  a  little  old-fashioned  hotel  to 
which  he  had  been  directed  by  a  fellow- traveler, —  a  hotel 
smelling  strongly  of  beer  and  bad  tobacco. 

He  ate  a  badly-cooked  meal  placed  on  a  small  slate  table 
in  the  common  room,  and  then  asked  the  careless,  whistling 
waiter  how  far  it  was  to  Loam  Street.  The  man  declared 
it  to  be  at  least  half  an  hour's  drive  in  a  cab;  and  when 
i  by  Master  Malcolm  if  a  cab  would  be  very  expen- 
sive, laugned  rudely  in  answering,  and  went  out  to  tell 
his  friends  the  good  joke. 

The  cab  was  procured,  the  Minister  being  anxious  to 
begin  his  work  at  once,  though  he  was  very  weary  from 
having  traveled  all  through  the  night. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the 
worst  of  the  yellow  fog  was  over,  but  the  lamps  were  still 
lighted,  and  the  damp  trickled  down  all  the  walls  and 
made  the  pavement  shiny  and  greasy. 

As  they  were  crossing  one  of  the  thoroughfares,  the 


32  DITA. 

cab-horse  fell,  and  the  poor,  patient  Minister  had  to  turn 
out  into  the  mud  and  wet.  In  answer  to  his  inquiries,  lie 
found  that  the  horse  had  been  out  all  night  and  was  quite 
worn  out — too  much  so  to  carry  him  as  far  as  Loam. 
Street.  The  cabman  was  touched  by  the  kindness  with 
which  the  Minister  spoke  to  him,  and  bade  him  wait 
where  he  was,  and  he  would  send  him  a  cab,  as  it  was 
often  very  difficult  to  find  one  in  a  London  fog. 

The  Minister  waited  a  long  time,  and  he  was  chilled 
and  pinched  with  cold,  but  he  strode  vigorously  up  and 
down. 

There  was  a  broad  sweeping  across  the  road  at  the 
corner,  and  in  charge  of  it  stood  a  little  wistful  street- 
sweeper  with  his  broom  tinder  his  arm.  The  Minister 
found  himself  watching  the  boy.  Passengers  hurried  by 
so  fast  that  no  one  paused  to  give  him  anything,  though 
he  ran  backward  and  forward,  keeping  a  clean,  smooth 
way,  and  the  pinched  little  face,  prematurely  old,  grew 
whiter  and  smaller,  and  once  it  seemed  to  the  Minister 
that  it  was  quivering  into  tears.  As  he  came  up  to  the 
crossing,  the  boy  only  hung  his  head — he  had  given  up 
hope. 

"  Here,  my  boy,"  said  Master  Malcolm,  and  he  held  out 
to  him  a  real  silver  shilling.  The  little  face  brightened, 
and  glowed  with  joy:  he  plied  his  broom  vigorously,  and 
poured  a  shrill,  joyous  whistle  into  the  air. 

The  cab  rattled  up,  and  the  boy  flew  to  open  the  door. 
The  Minister  smiled  at  him,  and  said  softly — 

"Never  say  die,  my  laddie — the  Lord  will  provide." 
Back  went  the 'boy  to  the  crossing;  and  on  other  rainy 
days — and  heaven  knows  some  days  will  be  dark  and 
dreary — the  words  of  that  man  with  the  sweet  smile, 
would  come  into  his  mind  —  "The  Lord  will  provide." 

The  cab  rattled  on,  over  the  stones.  It  seemed  a  long 
and  weary  time  before  it  stopped  and  the  man  opened  the 
door. 

Master  Malcolm's  heart  beat  as  he  rang  the  bell.  He 
had  ro  wait  some  time  before  it  was  answered  by  a  very 
shabby-looking  woman,  who  looked  sharply  at  him  as  if 
to  inquire  his  business. 

When  asked  whether  Mrs.  Carrol  was  there  (for 
that  was  the  name  poor  Assunta  had  assumed)  the  land- 
lady informed  him  that  she  was  gone — had  not,  in  fact, 


DITA.  33 

stayed  there  more  than  a  fortnight-.  The  woman  invited 
Muster  .Malcolm  in,  ami  sitting  down  opposite  to  him, 
suid  she  .would  answer  anything  he  chose  to  ask,  for  she 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  poor  young  lady,  and  would  be 
only  too  glad  to  hear  of  her  weli'are.  She  had  been  very 
ill  there,  the  landlady  said — delirious  in  her  mind  at  first, 
and  then  -so  weak  that  she  could  not  ?et  foot  to  the  ground; 
and  before  she  was  well  enough  to  do  so,  she  had  insisted 
upon  going,  for  she  had  to  pay  the  doctor's  bill,  and  her 
lodging,  and  she  could  no  longer  afford  such  lodgings, 
"  which  they  are  very  good,  though  I  says  it  that 
shouldn't,"  said  the  woman. 

"  She  kissed  me,  she  did,"  she  continued,  rubbing  her 
eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "and, 
thanked  me  for  all  the  trouble  I  had  been  at  with  the 
baby  on  my  hands.  She  was  a  dear  young  lady." 

"  But  can  you  tell  me  where  she  is  gone?"  said  the 
poor  Minister. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  could;  but  I  must  think.  It  was  Bill 
as  took  her  box  in  a  barrow,  and  whether  it  was  8  or 
whether  it  was  3,  I  am  not  sure;  but  a  respectable  street  it 
was,  and  the  lodging  was  kept  by  the  first  cousin  of  Mrs. 
Smith  (that's  our  baker),  and  she  married  into  the  up- 
noisteiing  line,  and  took  a  nice  house,  and  lets  it  cheaper 
than  I  can  do,  bring  a  widow;  and  she  went  there,  I  am 
sure,  because  I  know  that  Bill  took  her  box;  but  whether 
it  is  8  or  9  I  can't  say." 

"  And  the  street?" 

"Deal  Street;  it  is  a  poor  neighborhood,  but  respect- 
able." 

"  Had  she  any  means  of  making  her  own  livelihood?" 
asked  the  Minister,  anxiously. 

"  She  taught  Miss  Smith,  leastways  she  was  to  have 
taught  her,  French  and  Italian,  for  five  shillings  a- week; 
but  what  with  her  going  away,  and  what  with  her  illness, 
that  beginning  were  not  gone  on  with,  that  I  know  of." 

Master  Malcolm  thanked  the  woman  for  her  kindness, 
an,i  went  out  again  into  the  wet  street,  for  the  fog  luuJ 
now  changed  into  a  thick,  drizzling  rain. 

"To  Deal  Street,"  he  said;  and  the  cabman  mounted, 
wfth  much  grumbling,  into    his   seat,    and    tucked    his 
horse-cloth  tighter  round  his  knees, 
t 


34  BIT  A. 

They  tried  Xo.  8  first,  then  K"o.  9;  Mrs.  Carrol  wai 
not  known  at  either  house. 

The  cabman  advised  trying  18  or  19,  both  fruitlessly; 
at  last,  in  despair,  they  tried  28,  and  this  time  were  so 
far  successful  that  they  found  that  Mrs.  Carrol  had  been 
there. 

The  Minister  shivered  as  he  saw  the  dirty,  poverty- 
stricken  look  of  the  place.  The  landlady,  an  aggressive- 
looking  woman,  with  her  black  hair  twisted  into  curl- 
papers, led  the  way  sharply  into  her  private  parlor,  a 
small  room,  with  a  huge-patterned  drab  paper,  ana  two 
vases  of  wax-flowers,  veiled  in  coarse  yellow  muslin. 

She  began  talking  at  once. 

"  If  you're  the  friends,  sir,  you  ought  to  look  after  her 
bette" — that's  all  1  can  s?y.  Here  she  comes,  that  weak 
and  ill,  as  I  thought  she  would,  have  died  on  my  hands; 
but  when  I  asked  my  rent,  she  up  and  paid  me  a  week  in 
advance,  which,  as  she  had  no  reference,  is  customary, 
and " 

But  the  Minister  cut  short  her  endless  flow  of  talk,  ask- 
ing— 

"  Can  you  tell  me  her  present  address?" 

"Indeed  and  I  cannot;  which  it's  doubtful  whether 
any  one  hereabouts  can,  for  no  one  notices  where  them 
goes  as  have  paid  up  every  penny  they  owes,  foi  a  real 
lady  she  was." 

*'  Why  did  she  leave  you?"  asked  the  Minister,  his 
heart  sinking  very  low. 

"  Well,"  began  the  woman,  twisting  up  her  apron, 
"  ?he  was  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  the  baby  was  a  handful, 
just  begun  with  its  teething." 

"  You  sent  her  away?" 

"  No — not  that  exactly;  but  I  put  on  sixpence  for  the 
child,  and  its  fresh  milk  came  to  tenpcnce," 

"So  it  was  want  of  money  drove  her  away,"  said  the 
Minister;  "  had  she  no  means  of  support?" 

'•She  went  out,  day  after  day,  after  them  advertise- 
ments, but  nothing  ever  came  of  it,  and  that  is  how  we 
come  to  have  such  a  deal  of  trouble  with  the  child.  One 
day  when  she  came  in  she  found  it  alone,  and  crying,  the 
perverse  little  viper,  which  it  hadn't  been  alone  ten  min- 
utes; such  language  as  she  used, — my  word,  we  ain't  ac- 
customed to  that  style  of  tiling,  not  Mary  Ann  and  me, 


DITA.  '  35 

But  as  she  had  paid  her  week,  \ve  could  do  nothing  till 
the  time  was  up.  After  that  she  always  dragged  that 
heavy  child  wherever  she  went,  and  at  last  was  brought 
home  by  a  policeman  in  a  cab,  which  she  had  fainted  in 
the  street.  I  don't  call  that  respectable  myself." 

The  Minister  could  hardly  speak  for  sorrow  and  indig- 
nation— he  shook  the  dust  off  his  feet  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  woman's  house. 

Where  should  he  go  next?  how  should  he  pursue  his  in- 
quiries? He  had  no  resource  but  to  confide  to  the  cabman 
that  he  was  in  search  of  a  lady  who  could  not  be  found; 
and  he  was  much  astonished  by  the  man  putting  his  finger 
on  the  side  of  his  nose,  and  saying,  with  a  wink — 

"Now  it's  all  square,  ain't  it?  you  ain't  a  peeler  in  dis- 
guise?" 

"  A  what?"  said  the  bewildered  man. 

"  You  ain't  a  detective?  for,  if  you  are,  darn'd  if  I'll 
help  you." 

"  Oh.  no,  no!  I  am  a  minister  of  the  Church  of  Scot- 
land, and  in  search  of  a  stray  lamb  of  my  flock." 

The  cabman,  smiling  at  the  old-fashioned  manners  and 
dress  of  his  employer,  threw  himself  into  the  search. 
They  went  to  all  the  petty  tradesmen  near,  consulted  cab- 
men who  might  have  remembered  carrying  a  lady,  and  her 
child  and  box,  somewhere:  but  all  in  vain.  Assunta  was 
lost  in  this  huge  London  wilderness. 

At  last,  weary  and  disheartened,  Master  Malcolm  re- 
turned to  his  hotel.  The  common  room  was  now  full  of 
men,  ta-lking  and  smoking,  and  he  made  his  way  up  to  his 
own  room. 

He  sat  thinking  gloomily,  when  an  idea  suddenly  flashed 
across  him.  Assunta  had  promised  always  to  send  him 
her  address;  that  she  had  delayed  writing  from  Deal  Street 
might  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  she  remained 
there  so  short  a  time;  but  in  all  probability  a  letter  was 
waiting  for  him  now  at  his  own  manse,  in  the  very  north 
of  Scotland,  telling  him  where  she  was,  perhaps  that  she 
had  already  arrived  at  utmost  need.  Master  Malcolm  sat 
down  and  wrote  at  once  to  Keren happuch  desiring  her  to 
forward  his  letters,  should  there  be  any;  and  bitter  were 
his  regrets  when  he  considered  that  at  least  six  days  must 
elapse  before  lie  could  hope  for  an  answer. 

He  thought  that  no  time  during  the  whole  course  of  his 


36  BIT  A. 

life  had  seemed  so  long  as  the  next  week,  for  it  was  seven 
days  before  the  answer  came;  he  had  no  occupation  but 
wandering  about  the  streets,  or  reading  the  papers. 

He  strove  hard  not  to  lose  time,  and  whenever  lie  saw 
"To  Let"  printed  on  the  windows,  would  go  in  and  ask 
hopelessly  for  Assunta;  and  lie  would  wander  in  the  parks, 
hoping  that  her  good  angel  would  cause  her  to  bring  her 
child  out  for  change  of  air;  but  he  always  came  home 
disappointed. 

The  letter  arrived  at  last.  Master  Malcolm  was  right  in 
his  conjecture.  She  had  written  to  him,  and  as  he  read 
her  letter,  his  heart  died  within  him. 

"  My  only  friend,"  she  wrote,  "sorrow  has  broken  down 
my  pride;  I  am  changed  now.  Oh  send  me  money,  for  I 
I  now  not  where  to  turn!  Tell  Lady  Grisel  that  I  accept 
her  offer — it  is  for  Ewan's  child.  I  am  very  ill,  so  ill  that 
I  can  scarcely  see  to  write,  but  they  are  very  kind  to  me 

and  to  baby.  Send  me "  the  letter  broke  off  abruptly, 

and  the  direction  was  written  in  a  strange  hand. 

And  this  was  a  week  ago — nay,  more — ten  or  eleven 
days  ago.  Master  Malcolm  seized  on  his  hat  and  rushed 
down  stairs,  calling  loudly  for  a  cab. 

lie  drove  off  to  Whittle  Court,  bribing  the  cabman  to 
drive  with  speed. 

It  was  a  long  ride,  and  the  street  that  they  drove  down 
at  last  was  narrow  and  dirty.  Damp  clothes  hung  out  of 
the  windows  to  dry,  and  dirty  children  were  making  mud- 
pies  in  the  road. 

No.  60  turned  out  to  be  a  sort  of  carpet-shop,  where 
rugs  and  brushes  were  hung  all  over  the  outside;  and  the 
Minister  had  to  pick  his  way  through  piles  of  chairs  and 
iron  bedsteads.  The  atmosphere  was  choked  with  dust. 

The  shop-owner,  a  fussy  little  man  in  a  black  apron,  di- 
rected him  up  stairs  and  to  the  topmost  story  he  went, 
where  he  was  received  by  a  clean -looking  woman,  who 
at  his  first  inquiry  burst  into  tears. 

"  So  you  have  come  after  her,  poor  lady,  and  might 
have  helped  her."  she  sobbed;  "  and  she  so  ill." 

"  Can  I  see  her  at  once?" 

"  Law  bless  you,  sir!  see  her?  She  has  been  gone  this 
week." 

"Gone!  where?' 


DITA.  37 

"  Where  them  must  go  who  has  none  to  help  them," — 
said  the  woman;  "  why,  she  has  gone  to  the  workhouse." 

Assunta,  the  proud  Assunta,  come  to  this.  Master  Mal- 
colm felt  stunned  as  he  hearfl  the  news;  he  hurried  down 
stairs,  the  woman  gave  him  the  direction,  and  he  was 
once  more  on  the  road. 

"  Poor  Assunta!  poor  child!"  he  murmured  to  him- 
self; "  what  a  piteous  fate!" 

Now  the  cab  rattled  up  to  the  door,  and  stopped,  and 
Master  Malcolm  got  out.  He  asked  for  the  matron,  and 
was  received  by  her  in  her  business  room. 

She  was  a  kind-hearted  woman,  and  most  anxious  to  do 
all  in  her  power  to  help  those  under  her  charge. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  she,  rapidly  wetting  her  thumb, 
and  turning  over  the  pages  of  her  thick  book  of  cases. 
"  A  young  woman  taken  in  on  Thursday  the  eleventh. 
Ah!  here  it  is.  Mrs.  Carrol  and  child,  brought  in  by  Dr. 
Monk — he  is  our  doctor,  sir;  put  in  Infirmary  No.  14. 
Ah,  sir!"  the  kind  woman  stopped  and  looked  at  him. 

"Can  I  see  her?"  he  said,  eagerly;  "she  has  friends 
who  have  only  just  heard  of  her  distress." 

"I  a».n  afraid,  sir,  her  friends  are  too  late." 

"  Too  late?" 

"  No.  14  died  at  twelve  o'clock  last  night." 

The  Minister  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "Can 
I  see  her?"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

The  matron  nodded  and  led  the  way.  Able-bodied 
inmates  were  sweeping  the  stairs,  and  she  spoke  sharply 
to  one  or  t\vo  as  she  passed.  A  strong  smell  of  ironing 
from  the  laundry  below,  filled  the  air.  She  opened  the 
door  of  a  little  room  apart  and  ushered  him  in. 

Under  a  coarse  white  sheet  lava  rigid,  still  form.  The 
matron  raised  its  folds,  and  he  looked  for  the  last  time  on 
the  calm,  dead  face  of  Assunta. 

He  could  not  weep  over  the  storm-tossed  life,  now  en- 
tered into  rest;  but  he  asked  leave  to  stay  and  pray,  and 
the  matron  left  him  alone. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  E^gar  Street,  Solio,  was  a  well-known  book-shop 
kept  by  Pairdon  Brothers.  One  of  two  brothers,  Andrew 
Fairdon,  attended  to  the  business;  the  other  had  gone  out 


38  DITA. 

to  Australia  many  years  ago,  and  having  sent  home  money 
to  put  into  the  business,  honest  Andrew  had  added 
"  Brothers"  in  large  gold  letters  to  the  inscription  over 
the  door.  Lovel  Fairdon  had  almost  faded  from  the  re- 
membrance of  his  English  relatives.  The  tsvo  brothers 
in  former  days  had  been  close  companions  and  friends, 
both  intelligent,  both  ambitious.  Lovel's  ambition  took 
a  practical,  money-making  turn;  Andrew's  was  quenched 
by  his  falling  in  love,  which  caused  him  contentedly  to 
take  up  his  father's  trade,  and  sell  books  in  Edgar  Street, 
Soho. 

The  girl  whom  he  married  had  a  little  dower  of  two 
hundred  pounds,  very  profitable  to  the  business.  She 
was  somewhat  beneath  him  in  position,  far  below  him  in 
education,  the  only  child  of  a  small  tenant-farmer.  She 
had  lived  all  her  life  among  poultry  and  cows,  and  was 
easily  attracted  by  the  clever  young  Londoner,  who  came 
down  frequently  for  a  country  Sunday;  and  her  shy,  gen- 
tle manner,  and  the  fresh  sweetness  of  her  beauty,  proved 
to  him  an  .irresistible  attraction. 

The  shrewder  Lovel  tried  to  talk  away  his  brother's 
fancy,  but  Andrew's  heart  had  always  been  better  than 
his  head,  and  he  triumphantly  brought  home  his  young 
wife  from  the  green  open  country  to  gloomy  Soho. 

Nannie  pined  at  first,  as  was  but  natural.  Andrew 
was  too  clever  for  her;  he  was  always  talking  of  things  of 
which  she  knew  nothing — always  writing  scraps  of  poetry 
that  she  could  admire,  though  she  could  not  understand. 
Sometimes  he  would  be  angry  with  her  for  her  want  of 
power  of  criticism;  discriminating  admiration  he  called 
it — not  blind  incense.  What  he  longed  for  was,  that  she 
should  praise  it  line  by  line,  not  all  in  a  lump.  But  as 
they  grew  older  together,  he  became  satisfied  to  talk  to 
her,  feeling  her  purring  acceptance  of  his  marvelous 
cleverness  and  apt  quotations  just  the  soothing  balm 
needful  for  the  irritable  poetical  temperament.  Andrew 
was  great  at  seeing  himself  in  all  imaginable  attitudes—- 
now as  a  deep  and  unfathomable  man  of  letters,  but 
oftener  as  a  misunderstood  genius.  He  mistook  his  diffi- 
culty in  finding  rhymes  for  the  workings  of  genius,  striv- 
ing in  agony  to  embody  its  deep  thoughts  in  language. 
"  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling,"  was  often  in 
his  mind,  and  at  such  moments  he  would  unbutton  his 


DITA.  30 

waistcoat,  which  the   expansion  of    his  soul    made    too 
tight. 

But  with  all  his  absurdities  he  was  a  good  and  amiable 
man,  and  few  couples  loved  each  other  with  a  more  har- 
monious love  than  Andrew  Fairdon  and  Nannie  his  wife. 

Nannie  had  but  one  real  trouble  in  the  wide  world  now 
that  she  hud  outlived  her  transplantation  into  the  busy 
hum  of  the  London  streets,  and  that  trouble  was,  that 
the  one  only  little  child  God  had  sent  her,  had  remained 
but  one  short  week  in  the  world,  and  had  been  laid  to 
rest  in  the  green  church-yard  of  her  own  home.  Some 
portion  of  her  heart  had  been  buried  with  it  she  was  wont 
to  say,  and  it  was  years  before  the  pain  softened;  not  that 
she  rebelled  in  spirit,  but  that  there  was  something  un- 
congenial in  her  life,  something  undefined  even  to  herself 
— a  want  of  fields,  and  flowers,  and  the  music  of  birds, 
and  the  healthful  hard  work  of  her  youth;  and  this  want 
for  one  short  week  was  filled  up  by  the  sweetness  of 
motherhood,  only  to  leave  a  darker  void  behind.  So 
Nannie's  pretty  face  had  a  sad  look,  and  very  early  there 
were  threads  of  silver  in  her  fair  hair.  Mrs.  Fairdon's 
great  delight  was  to  do  what  good  she  could.  The  parish 
workhouse  was  not  far  from  the  shop,  and  she  had  made 
acquaintance  with  the  busy  matron,  Mrs.  Brown,  the 
consequence  was  that  she  was  often  allowed  to  visit  the 
old  people  and  the  infirmary,  and  her  visits  were  hailed 
with  delight — meaning,  as  they  often  did,  packets  of  tea, 
good  home-made  cake,  and  sometimes  baskets  of  flowers. 
More  than  one  poor  friendless  waif  of  society  owed  to  her 
that  most  precious  of  all  gifts,  a  fresh  start  on  coming 
out  of  the  house.  In  any  out-of-the-way  case  Mrs.  Brown 
was  wont  to  seek  sympathy  and  even  advice  from  Mrs. 
Fairdon. 

It  had  been  so  when  poor  Assunta  had  been  brought  in 
almost  dying,  and  reduced  to  such  poverty  that  she  had 
sold  all  the  warm  clothing  she  had  possessed. 

Assunta  never  again  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow. 
The  baby  was  a  strong,  healthy  child,  and  throve  well 
even  on  workhouse  nursing  and  food.  It  u?ed  to  lie  con- 
tentedly cooing  for  hours  by  its  dying  mother,  at  once  the 
comfort  and  agony  of  her  heart.  That  no  answer  came 
to  her  letter  seemed  to  Assunta  to  mean  that  Lady  Grisel 
had  withdrawn  her  offer  of  help,  that  the  Minister  shrank 


40  DITA. 

from  telling  her  such  grievous  news,  that  she  was  deserted 
by  all. 

One  day  Mrs.  Fairdon  (who  Tisited  her  every  day) 
found  her  in  such  grief  that,  melting  into  tears  herself, 
she  implored  her  to  make  her  indeed  her  friend  and  con- 
fidant; and  Assunta  told  her  all  her  miserable  story,  only 
omitting  the  names.  As  she  dwelt  on  Ewan's  goodness, 
his  beauty,  and  his  love  for  her,  Mrs.  Fairdon  saw  well 
the  blow  that  the  suspicion  of  his  treachery  must  have 
been;  but  she  stifled  the  exclamation  of  indignation  that 
rose  to  her  lips,  fearing  to  add  to  Assunta's  anguish  by 
confirming-  the  dread,  only  half  admitted  by  the  unhappy 
girl,  that  Ewan  had  indeed  been  false.  She  soothed  and 
petted  her;  then  burst  forth  the  poor  mother's  terror  for 
her  child — what  would  become  of  her?  she  was  so  utterly 
friendless. 

When  Mrs.  Fairdon  left  her  bedside  and  went  home  a 
dazzling  vision  was  playing  before  her  eyes.  Would  An- 
drew allow  her  to  adopt  this  child  as  her  own.  Once,  half 
in  joke,  he  had  told  her  that  if  she  could  find  a  baby 
without  one  single  tie  in  the  world,  she  might  have  it, 
and  the  thought  had  been  with  her  ever  since. 

The  bookseller  had  not  finished  his  work,  but  he  was 
standing  in  the  tiny  back-yard  of  his  house  washing  his 
hands  at  the  pump,  and  singing  merrily  to  himself  Autol- 
ycus's  song — 

"Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  footpath  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a; 

.A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a." 

When  he  saw  Mrs.  Fairdon's  comely  face  now  full  of  the 
keenest  anxiety,  he  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her,  say- 
ing, "How  now,  sweet  wife?" 

Shakespeare  was  his  mood  just  now,  and  he  could 
scarcely  speak  plain  English. 

With  eager  haste  she  told  him  her  story,  holding  him 
tight  by  one  of  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  She  had  found 
the  baby  at  last!  Might  she  have  it?  As  she  turned  her 
tender  blue  eyes  up  to  his,  Andrew  read  in  them  that  in- 
describable longing  of  the  childless  mother,  that  unsatis- 
fied emptiness  of  heart  and  arms  that  till  this  moment 
he  had  scarcely  realized,  and  had  not  noticed  for  years. 


DITA.  41 

"It  is  such  a  clear  little  thing!"  she  said;  "a  sweet 
little  winsome  thing  with  golden  hair.  It  would  be  a  joy 
and  comfort  to  you,  Andy,  and  you  conld  teach  it  your 
fine  poetry,  and  educate  it  to  understand  as  I  never  could 
• — no,  not  if  I  live  to  a  hundred,  my  dear." 

The  man's  eyes  sparkled — there  was  something  very  in- 
viting about  the  idea  of  this  child  to  bring  up. 

'*'  You  are  sure  that  nobody  will  be  wanting  to  claim 
it?"  lie  said,  jealously,  as  though  it  were  already  his  own, 
"  If  anybody  else  wants  it,  I'll  not  lift  a  finger  to  take  it; 
my  right  must  be  undisputed." 

"  It  has  neither  father  nor  kinsfolk  to  own  it,  and  the 
poor  young  mother  is  dying;  she  is  an  Italian." 

"An  Italian!  hum!" 

"  But  she  has  lived  all  her  life  in  Scotland,"  cried  Mrs. 
Fairdon,  "  and  speaks  English  as  well  as  yourself." 

"  It  might  be  called  Juliet,"  muttered  Andrew,  and  his 
wife  caught  at  the  words. 

'•'Then  I  may?  I  can  tell  her  that  the  child  shall  be 
ours?" 

"Yes;  but,  my  dear" — he  was  surprised  to  find  his 
soft-hearted  wife  sobbing  aloud  on  his  breast;  he  went  on 
kindly — "  my  dear,  I  will  leave  all  to  you:  we  must  not 
have  it  if  it  is  claimed  by  others;  make  sure  of  this  first." 

"I  will — I  will,  thank  you,  Andy — how  can  I  thank 
you?" 

Before  half  her  thanks  were  over,  she  had  gone  back  to 
tell  the  news  to  poor  Assunta. 

Andrew,  meanwhile,  unmindful  of  the  cold,  drew  a 
rush-bottomed  chair  from  the  kitchen  to  the  yard,  and 
sitting  down,  smiled  as  he  lit  his  pipe  and  thought  of  the 
golden- haired  child  playing  about  round  his  knee — its 
dear  little  voice  making  the  old  shop  resound  with  the 
noise;  and  he  planned  a  swing  between  two  linen-posts, 
and  wondered  whether  in  the  midst  of  his  piles  of  books 
were  any  fitted  for  very  little  children. 

When  Mrs.  Fairdon  reached  the  workhouse,  Assunta 
was  almost  past  speaking.  The  people  lying  in  their  rows 
of  beds  ranged  against  the  buff-plastered  Avails  were  all 
silent,  for  they  knew  that  one  soul  from  among  them  was 
passing  away. 

When  Mrs.  Fairdon  knelt  down  and  took  the  dying 
girl's  hand  in  hers,  and  swore  to  be  a  mother  to  her  child, 


4S  DITA. 

the  look  that  dime  over  her  face  was  of  indescribable  joy 
and  thankfulness;  she  held  her  hand  tightly  in  hers,  and 
never  took  her  eyes  from  Nannie's  face,  till  the  end  came 
about  twelve  o'clock. 

"When  Xannie  came  home,  Andrew  was  quite  grieved 
that  she  had  not  been  able  to  bring  the  baby  back  with 
her;  he  longed  to  see  it  now  that  it  was  to  be  his,  and  was 
almost  cross  to  his  gentle  wife. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

VERY  early  on  tlpe  following  morning,  Mrs.  Fairdon 
•was  at  the  workhouse — as  early  us  she  could  get  away  from 
her  household  cares  at  home. 

It  was  visiting  day,  and  the  friends  of  the  patients  were 
in  the  infirmary.  The  nurse,  who  was  very  busy,  just 
told  her  that  No.  14's  baby  had  been  taken  to  the  old 
people's  ward  to  be  out  of  the  way,  and  that  one  old 
woman  had  been  told  off  to  take  care  of  it.  She  hurried 
away  to  the  large  ward,  and  found  that  also  to  be  full  of 
visitors.  Eager  as  she  was,  she  found  time  to  stop  at  one 
bed  with  a  cheeifiil  "  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Frank,"  know- 
ing that  that  poor  old  woman  had  lost  every  friend  she 
possessed  in  the  world,  and  always  spent  visiting  days  in 
softly  crying  to  herself. 

The  "good-morning"  in  that  kind  voice  seemed  espe- 
cially welcome  to-day;  and  though  Mrs.  Frank  only  nodded 
awkwardly,  she  muttered,  "God  bless  you,  ma'am!" 

As  Mrs.  Fairdon  hurried  through  the  rooms,  she  sud- 
denly started  and  shivered — she  saw  the  baby,  her  own 
precious  baby,  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger. 

The  sky  through  the  windows  above  the  beds  was  gray 
and  dim,  for  the  day  was  cloudy,  but  one  ray  of  brilliant 
white  light  shone  round  the  rugged  face  of  Master  Mal- 
colm, as  he  sat  on  a  chair  between  two  white  beds,  with 
Assunta's  golden-haired  child  in  his  arms.  He  was  look- 
ing down  on  it  tenderly,  with  deep  compassion,  and  the 
baby  was  gazing  up  into  his  face  with  the  solemn  dignity 
of  infancy. 

Mrs.  Fairdon's  heart  died  within  her.  Had  he  come  to 
claim  it?  perhaps  to  take  it  away!  What  should  she  do? 
She  went  swiftly  up  to  the  Minister  and  held  out  her  arms 


DITA.  43 

for  the  child.    He  rose  to  his  feet,  but  showed  a  moment5! 
reluctance  to  part  with  it. 

"Will  you  not  give  it  me,  sir?"  she  said,  piteomly. 
"It  is  mine." 

"  Yours!  1  tvas  told  that  it  was  the  child  of  a  friend  of 
mine  who  lias  been  called  away  from  this  world,"  he  said, 
with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  may  I  not  have  it?"  entreated  poor  Nannie,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "The  poor  mother  gave  it  to  me — it  is 
mine.  I  was  with  her  at  the  last,  and  I  swore  to  bring  up 
the  little  one  as  my  own." 

The  Minister  looked  at  her  earnestly;  the  stamp  of 
goodness  was  on  her  face  unmistakably,  but  still  he  hesi- 
tated. "You  take  upon  yourself  a  great  responsibility," 
he  said,  "  to  bring  this  little  lamb  to  her  Heavenly 
Father's  fold." 

"With  His  help,  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Fairdon, 
reverently.  Then  the  Minister  laid  the  child  in  her  arms, 
saying-,  '-Take  her,  then,  in  Goal's  name." 

Many  important  matters  had  to  be  settled,  and  several 
times  Master  Malcolm  found  himself  in  the  back  sitting- 
room  of  Fairdon's  shop,  arranging  things  with  him.  He 
could  not  feel  justified  in  delivering  the  child  wholly  into 
these  good  people's  care  until  he  should  have  had  time  to 
communicate  with  Lady  Grisel,  whose  name  heforebore  to 
mention;  neither  did  the  Fairdons  seek  to  know  it.  The 
Minister  thought  that  some  payment  ought  to  be  made  to 
help  to  meet  the  expenses  of  its  support;  but  this  Andrew 
absolutely  declined.  He  was  immovable;  either  the  child 
must  remain  entirely  in  the  hands  of  its  unwilling  rel- 
atives, or  must  be  delivered  over  body  and  soul  to  him,  to 
bear  his  name,  and  to  be  to  him  as  a  real  daughter,  her 
kindred  resigning  every  claim. 

Master  Malcolm  learned  from  the  matron  and  others 
how  completely  he  might  rely  on  the  excellence  and  good- 
ness of  the  worthy  couple;  and  it  was  with  a  lighter  heart 
than  he  could  have  believed  possible,  that  he  wrote  to  tell 
La.ly  Grisel  that  a  home,  in  every  way  so  desirable,  had 
offered  itself  for  the  little  orphan. 

The  answer  came  at  length:  the  waiting  had  seemed 
very  long  to  the  anxious  Mrs.  Fairdon.  Lady  Grisel  was 
willing  to  renounce  all  claim,  once  and  for  ever,  to  the 
guardianship  of  the  child.  She  thanked  God  that  so  good 


44  DITA. 

a  home  was  found,  and  that  now  the  piteous  story  of  poor 
Assunta  need  never  be  further  known;  and  she  said  that 
she  never  could  express  in  words  her  gratitiub  for  all  that 
the  Minister  had  done. 

So  Master  Malcolm  solemnly  blessed  the  child,  and 
went  home  again  to  the  north,  and  Mrs.  Fairdon  took 
possession  of  her  as  her  own  and  brought  her  home. 

There  was  quite  a  little  fete  made  when  the  baby  ar- 
rived. The  bookseller  and  his  assistant,  a  lad -of  nineteen 
most  faithfully  attached  to  his  master,  decorated  the  house 
with  holly  and  ivy,  and  composed  a  large  "Welcome"  iu 
holly-berries  to  nail  over  its  new  bed.  Andrew  was  most  hap- 
py and  fussy  over  the  ordering  of  the  daily  cans  of  new  milk 
and  crearn,  very  full  of  its  new  clothes  and  his  plans  of 
education.  He  insisted  on  going  with  his  wife  to  one 
baby -shop  after  another,  choosing  hoods  and  pelisses,  and 
when  Mrs.  Fairdon  would  fain  have  chosen  sober  gray,  in- 
sisted on  pale  blue  and  satin  quillings — nothing  was  too 
good  for  the  adopted  child. 

The  evening  after  its  arrival,  Andrew  came  out  of  the 
shop  armed  with  an  immense  Shakespeare.  He  began  at 
once  turning  over  the  leaves.  ''  Shakespeare  has  said, 
'  What's  in  a  name?'  my  dear — wherein  he  made,  to  my 
humble  thinking,  a  grave  mistake.  A  name!  why,  what 
\.ere  Portia  if  her  name  were  Jane,  or  an  Ophelia  named 
Martha?  wheie  were  the  sorrows  of  a  Danish  Prince 
Thomas,  or  the  despairs  of  a  Moorish  William?  No,  no. 
such  a  Portia  would  only  have  been  a  sentimental  middle- 
class  female — such  an  Ophelia  a  whining  milkmaid.  Do 
you  not  see  the  difference,  wife?" 

"  Yes, 'indeed,''  answered  Nannie,  composedly. 

"A  name,"  he  went  on,  "adds  to  individuality  aa 
much  as,  or  more  than,  the  expression  of  the  face  or  the 
cut  of  the  clothes.  Why,  nature  is  so  strong,  that  a  wom- 
an who  has  been  named  unsuitably,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten  has  her  name  changed.  A  gentle  Margaret  will  per- 
force be  Meg,  Peggie,  Minnie,  or  other  such;  while  a 
fierce  nature  will  bear  the  name  of  Phoebe  or  Celia  as  ill 
as  a  charger  the  plowshare." 

"  Quite  true,"  said  the  admiring  Nannie. 

"So,  wife,  it  is  a  most  important  thing,  the  name  we 
give  our  child;  remernber.it  stamps  her  with  a  certain 
character  for  life.  We  will  have  none  of  your  foolish 


DITA.  45 

names;  there  are  enough  of  black-haired  Blanches  and 
flaxen  Roses  already  in  the  world:  her  name  must  be  sig- 
nificant." 

*'  Susan  was  my  mother's  name,"  said  Mrs.  Fairdon, 
timidly. 

"  Susan,  yes — pretty,  rural,  and  simple — an  affection- 
ate name.  No,  my  dear,  it  is  a  good  name,  but  it  does 
not  reach  my  idea  of  what  is  suitable." 

"She  lias  been  baptized  Margaret  Griselda." 

"''The  very  thing,"  cried  Andrew,  fretfully.  "We 
could  not  have  thought  of  finer,  nobler  names;  but  for 
the  very  reason  that  they  are  her  names,  they  must  not  be 
her  names.  Griselda! — beautiful!  I  should  have  thought 
of  that  at  once." 

"  It  seems  a  pity,"  said  Mrs.  Fairdon,  going  on  with 
her  work:  in  truth  she  little  cared  what  name  it  would 
please  her  husband  to  give  the  child;  to  her  the  rose  by 
any  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 

"  Shakespeare,"  went  on  Andrew,  had  a  marvelous  gift 
in  naming.  Does  not  Juliet  bring  before  your  mind  the 
gorgeous  southern  beauty  of  the  ci  ild  of  Capulet,  and 
Beatrice  all  wit  and  brilliance?  I  had  thought  of  Juliet, 
but  her  head  is  all  covered  with  rings  of  golden  hair. 
She  is  very  pretty,  Nannie.  I  shall  not  be  away  long;  I 
am  going  to  look  at  her  little  face." 

Mrs.  Fairdon  quietly  went  on  sewing:  it  was  pretty  to 
see  the  entire  look  of  content  and  happiness  on  her  sweet 
face. 

Presently  Andrew  stole  back  on  tiptoe  and  said,  "  She 
moved  in  her  sleep,  Nannie,  and  when  I  put  my  ringer  iu 
her  little  palm,  her  hand  closed  on  it  tightly.  She  kept 
me  at  least  live  minutes,  for  I  was  afraid  of  wakening  her 
by  taking  it  away.  God  bless  her! — now  do  not  speak, 
but  let  me  think." 

And  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  Andrew  Fairdon 
remained  silent  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  Shakespeare  very  slowly. 

Then  he  rose  and  said  gently,  "  Perhaps  if  we  have 
prayers  first,  I  may  think  afterward  of  a  name,  Nannie." 

Mrs.  Fairdon  rose  and  folded  up  her  WDrk,  and  sum- 
moned the  servant-girl.  Andrew  read  a  chapter  from  the 
Bible,  then  a  few  short  collects.  When  the  girl  was  gono 
he  turned  to  his  wife  smiling. 


46  DITA. 

"  I  have  it,  Nannie,"  he  said.  te  A  beautiful  name,  a 
rare  name,  and  one,  alas  I  too  well  suited  to  the  little  one." 

"  What  is  it?''  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  Perdita." 

"  Is  it  not  heathenish?"  she  asked.  But  Andrew  gave 
no  heed:  he  went  on,  "'No  name  of  all  Shakespeare's  cre- 
ations brings  sweeter  thoughts  to  the  mind;  there  is  not 
one  so  full  of  grace  and  poetry  as  Perdita,"  and  he  went  on 
murmuring  to  himself — 

"  When  you  speak,  sweet, 
Td  have  you  do  it  ever:   wheu  you  sing, 
I'd  have  you  buy  and  and  sell  so;  so  give  alms; 
Pray  so:   and,  for  the  ordering  your  affairs, 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  mitrht  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function.     Each  your  doing, 
So  singular  in  each  particular, 
Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 
That  all  your  "acts  are  queens." 

So  it  was  decided  that  the  little  orphan,  poor  Assunta's 
golden-haired  child,  should  be  called  Perdita. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

RIGHT  happy  are  those  who  in  after-life  can  look  back 
upon  a  childhood  unclouded  in  its  cairn  and  peace.  Little 
Perdita's  life  was  a.s  sweet  and  happy  as  are  the  lives  of 
little  lambs  and  little  birds — nay,  sweeter,  for  storms,  and 
birds  of  prey,  and  many  terrors,  burden  the  lives  of  even 
the  youngest  animals;  but  from  all  little  Perdita,  was 
sheltered,  perhaps  fenced  round  by  the  wings  of  an  angel, 
whose  especial  task  might  be  to  guard  the  orphan  baby. 

It  might  seem  as  if  a  crowded  street  in  London,  a  little 
paved  courtyard,  into  which  tlte  kitchen  door  opened, 
were  little  like  a  Paradise;  but  a  child  requires  so  little, 
it  has  such  a  wondrous  gift  of  imagination:  a  little  pillow, 
stuffed  with  an  extemporized  face,  will  be  as  precious  to 
it  as  the  finest  wax  doll;  a  broken  hobby- horse  will  carry 
as  doughty  a  knight  as  the  noblest  rocking-horse;  and 
chairs  will  make  capital  rail  way- trains,  and  broom-sticks 
save  drowning  sailors,  with  a  stool  for  a  rock. 


PITA.  4? 

Perdita  bad  one  possession  that  was  actual,  not  an 
idealized  treasure — one  for  which  many  a  rich  little  child, 
with  beautiful  toys,  would  have  longed, — this  was  a  little 
Maltese  dog,  excessively  small,  and  covered  with  white, 
woolly  curls.  The  dog  lived  with  her,  ate  the  portion 
she  gave  it  of  her  own  bread  and  milk,  and  never  left  her. 
She  washed  it,  and  dressed  it  in  pink  and  blue  bows,  and 
talked  to  it  about  everything  she  had  to  talk  about;  and 
whenever  she  went  out  with  her  adopted  father,  Fluff  ac- 
companied them.  The  little  one  grew  and  throve  wonder- 
fully. She  was  very  fair,  and  her  hair  kept  its  beautiful 
golden  hue;  but  her  eyes  grew  darker  and  darker,  and  of 
a  deep  soft  brown,  the  only  features  she  inherited  from 
her  Italian  mother. 

Andrew  and  Nannie  loved  the  very  ground  she  trod  on 
— she  became  the  center  of  their  thoughts  and  plans.  He 
would  have  spoilt  her,  without  doubt;  but  Nannie  was 
wise  and  firm,  and  always  did  her  best  to  counteract  the 
spoiling  with  necessary  reproof,  which,  however,  was  such 
a  pain  to  Andrew,  that  Nannie  would  feel  ruefully  that 
she  was  punishing  her  husband  far  more  than  the  child. 
Fluff  was  a  great  trouble  when  they  walked  in  the  Park. 
He  would  wind  his  long  pink  ribbon  round  the  legs  of  the 
passers-by;  he  would  bark  fiercely  at  dogs  that  could  easily 
have  crunched  him,  bones  and  all,  into  a  handful  of  dust; 
but  Andrew  minded  nothing  for  Dita's  sake.  Dita  was 
the  name  little  Perdita  had  given  herself  when  she  first 
began  to  speak.  That  first  sentence  was  an  era  in  her 
history.  They  were  sitting  in  the  Park  on  a  bench,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Fairdon,  with  Perdita  between  them,  when  a 
man  came  by  with  three  puppies  in  his  arms.  The  child 
flew  after  him,  and  caught  one  in  her  little  hands,  hold- 
ing it  strained  tightly  to  her  flushed  cheeks,  and  looking 
imploringly  at  the  owner. 

"Dita  have  it,  dada!" 

Of  course  it  was  bought,  and  called  Fluff,  and  Dita 
never  lost  her  intense  attachment  to  the  little  animal. 
Perdita's  only  playfellow  was  the  young  shopman,  who 
devoted  every  spare  moment  to  her  service.  He  was  a 
strange  lad,  awkward  and  ungainly  in  appearance,  with 
large  hands  and  feet,  slouching  gait,  and  wistful  eyes. 
Long  ago  his  master  had  called  him  the  melancholy 
Jaqucs,  and  the  name  hud  stuck  to  him  ever  since.  He 


48  MTA. 

had  been  left  fatherless  some  years  before,  and  his  mother, 
reduced  to  extreme  poverty,  had  found  it  hard  to  give  the 
boy  even  the  commonest  education;  but  even  at  ten  years 
old  his  tasie  for  reading  amounted  to  a  passion.  His 
father  had  been  a  village  schoolmaster — a  feckless  being, 
tormented  by  the  boys,  ridiculed  and  teased.  He  loved 
learning  for  learning's  sake,  and  would  speak  with  some 
pride  of  the  scholastic  tastes  of  his  few  relations:  it  ran 
in  the  blood,  he  would  say;  but,  alas!  so  also  did  ttie 
tendency  to  go  down  in  the  world,  to  get  poorer,  and  to 
dia  young — and  the  widow  was  left  in  great  difficulties. 
The  br>y  struggled  against  every  difficulty,  devoured  every 
book  in  the  village  library,  and  hungered  for  more;  his 
mother  managed  to  make  her  living  by  washing,  and, 
wisely  seeing  that  it  was  impossible  to  content  Jaques  by 
a  country  trade,  sanctioned  his  going  up  to  London,  with 
a  recommendation  from  the  village  schoolmaster.  Jaques 
was  fortunate  enough  to  please  Andrew  Fairdon,  and  he 
entered  upon  his  duties  with  an  enthusiasm  that  won  his 
master's  heart.  Tie  was  among  books — precious  books;  he 
never  ceased  working  till  he  made  himself  acquainted  with 
every  shelf,  and  the  books  added  to  the  stock  were 
generally  bought  by  him.  for  Andrew  was  clever  enough 
to  see  that  Jaques  soon  knew  more  of  his  trade  than  he 
did  himself. 

Before  she  could  walk  alone,  Perdita  treated  him  as  her 
slave.  His  holidays  were  spent  in  being  her  cat,  her 
elephant,  or  her  horse;  and  one  day  Mrs.  Fairdon  had  to 
run  out  and  stop  the  game  Dita  had  invented,  which  was 
filling  a  doll's  can  at  the  pump  and  pouring  it  over  his 
face. 

At  one  time  it  became  impressed  on  Andrew's  mind  that 
he  was  made  for  great  things,  that  it  was  his  destination 
to  achieve  a  great  literary  success.  He  had  now  lived  for 
years  in  a  Shakespearian  atmosphere,  and  that  made  him 
determine  that  the  first  attempt  should  be  a  play,  after 
the  manner  of  Shakespeare. 

Perdita  was  five  years  old.  and  very  pretty.  She  was 
Andrew's  constant  companion,  sitting  all  the  morning 
curled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  shop,  with  Fluff  or  her  doll, 
or  trotting  by  his  side  out  of  doors  when  he  was  free. 

It  was  a  time  of  discomfort  to  Nannie  when  her  husband 
began  his  literary  labors;  he  almost  deserted  the  shop, 


rA.  40 

leaving  the  care  of  it  to  Jaques  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  clay,  and  sat  in  the  parlor  passing  from  one  tremen- 
dous mood  to  another  during  the  composition  of  the  plot. 
Perdita  was  not  alarmed — she  was  too  much  accustomed 
to  his  ways:  but  now  and  then,  if  without  any  reason  hut 
the  joy  of  some  inspiration  within  him,  Andrew  would 
leap  up,  strike  the  table,  and  utter  a  laugh  of  triumph, 
Fluff  would  rush  forward  in  a  paroxysm  of  shrill,  excited 
barking,  and  then  Dita  laughed  also,  and  they  svould  all 
kiss  and  go  back  to  their  corners. 

Comedy  and  Tragedy  held  the  author  between  them  as 
they  held  the  great  Garrick  of  old.  Tragedy,  perhaps, 
was  the  more  attractive  of  the  two — more  sublime;  but 
there  was  more  play  of  fancy  in  Comedy — more  scope  for 
graceful  imagery,,  in  which  Andrew  considered  himself  to 
excel. 

The  plot  was  a  considerable  difficulty;  it  seemed  to  him 
that  if  he  had  but  a  plot,  his  pen  would  flow  readily.  His 
genius  scorned  advice,  but  was  open  to  insinuated  sug- 
gestions, and  one  morning  he  said — 

"Nannie,  were  you  to  set  yourself  to  invent  a  story, 
what  would  you  say?" 

She  knew  what  he  wanted. 

"A  story  of  a  foundling  child  would  be  touching  and 
sweet — would  it  not,  dear?" 

"ILi!  alone  in  the  world — sans  father,  sans  mother, 
sans  sister,  sans  brother.  A  soliloquy.  There  must  be  A 
fool,  and  a  king  or  a  duke,  and  some  female  confidante — 
two  ladies,  one  rich — the  duke's  daughter." 

"Jaquy,"  said  Dita,  sitting  on  the  little  three-legged 
stool  in  the  yard — "Jaquy,  be  a  horse!"  He  went  down, 
on  his  knees. 

"  This  child's  talk  may  be  the  making  of  my  play,'1 
murmured  Andrew,  sitting  at  the  open  window  biting  his 
pen. 

Di!a  had  climbed  on  to  her  patient  horse's  back  and 
was  thumping  him  hard. 

"  My  heroine  goes  out  a-hunting,"  he  noted  down;  "  is 
bold  and  somewhat  merciless — she  will  need  a  Petruohio, 
haply " 

"Now  jump!  jump!  jump!"  shouted  Dita.  "Jump 
high,  and  me  tumble  off!" 


60  .    DITA. 

And  she  rolled  off  round  his  nec\  on  to  the  ground, 
and  pushing  her  curls  off  her  little  rosy  face,  she  cried — • 

"Now  me  dead!" 

Andrew  wrote  down  might  and  main:  the  very  way  to 
get  the  fair  lady  under  the  roof  of  the  duke,  was  to  have 
her  thrown  from  her  horse  while  hunting  in  the  foresc, 
taken  up  for  dead,  and  carried  into  the  midst  of  the 
court.  He  looked  up  for  more  inspiration,  but  Dita  was 
tired  of  being  dead,  and  was  running  about  on  all  fours 
with  Jaques  after  her,  shouting — 

"la  bunny,  and  you  be  a  dog  and  bite  me!"  and  Fluff 
was  half  mad  with  excitement. 

Mrs.  Fairdon  stood  watching  at  the  door,  and  she  did 
not  stop  the  game  to-day,  because  it  was  Saturday,  and 
Dita  had  on  a  dirty  frock  on  purpose. 

When  she  went  in,  Andrew  had  laid  down  the  paper 
with  a  sigh  of  relief — 

"  I  have  got  my  first  act,  Nan,"  he  said.  "  That 
child  is  a  genius,  and  has  brought  me  inspiration.  I  feel 
now  that  my  poor  brain  wants  rest;  let  us  take  a  walk 
and  make  Jaques  go  with  us." 

"I  knew  she  would  be  help  to  you,"  said  Nannie, 
kissing  Dita  as  she  captured  her.  "  Bless  the  child, 
I  must  change  everything  she  has  on;  and  for  you, 
Jaques.  brush  yourself,  aud  put  on  a  clean  tie,  and  then 
we'll  go  out;"  and  she  carried  off  the  laughing  and  kick- 
ing child. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  next  day  Andrew  tried  in  vain  to  make  Dita  play 
in  a  Suggestive  manner;  she  would  insist  that  her  doll  was 
ill,  and  watched  it  with  her  finger  on  her  lips.  So  far 
this  was  good,  for  it  suggested  to  Andrew  a  long  illness 
to  his  heroine  iu  the  ducal  palace;  and  he  determined  to 
write  his  first  act,  and  trust  to  the  future  for  the  rest  of 
the  story. 

He  began  his  soliloquy,  and  to  his  delight  found  it  to 
flow  smoothly  and  easily:  a  sort  of  refrain — ''Alone, 
alone;  all,  all  alone" — gave  a  poetic  melancholy  which 
charmed  him.  He  wrote  for  some  pages  and  then  began 
uneasily  to  fear  that  soliloquies  in  "  Shakespeare  "  did  not 


DITA.  51 

generally  last  so  long.  He  took  down  his  favorite,  and 
patiently  counted  every  word  in  one  of  Hamlet's  longest 
speeches,  and  on  comparing  it  with  the  manuscript,  found 
it  so  much  longer  than  he  expected,  that  he  ventured  to 
add  yet  another  page  to  the  expression  of  his  heroine's 
thoughts.  The  confidante  had  just  broken  in  on  her 
meditations  with  "  How,  now,  fair  mistress?"  or  "Prithee, 
lady  "  (he  had  not  quite  decided  which),  when  Nannie 
came  running  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

'•'A  letter  for  you,  Andy,"  she  said,  "and  there  is  a 
shilling  to  pay.  It  is  an  Australian  letter,  and,  I  fear, 
contains  no  good  news,  for  it  is  not  in  your  brother's  writ- 
ing, and  it  is  sealed  with  black." 

Andrew's  face  grew  pale  as  he  hurriedly  took  the  letter. 

"Pay  the  man,"  he  said,  giving  her  the  money,  and  she 
went. 

Presently  little  Dita  came  in  from  the  yard,  very  de- 
murely carrying  her  sick  doll;  but  when  she  saw  Andrew's 
face  she  threw  it  aside,  and  running  up  to  him  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  and  clambered  up  into  his  lap. 

"What  is  it? — what  is  it,  daddy?"  she  cried;  but  to  her 
surprise  he  put  her  gently  down,  and  went  up  to  his 
room.  Dita  began  to  cry,  she  knew  not  why,  and  Nannie 
came  in  to  comfort  her,  but  she  would  not  let  her  go  up 
to  disturb  Andrew;  she  feared  that  some  very  bad  news 
had  come,  and  her  heart  ached  for  her  husband,  for  she 
knew  how  dearly  he  had  loved  his  brother.  She  took 
Dita  on  her  lap  and  dried  her  eyes,  and  told  her  stories  to 
allay  her  own  anxiety. 

At  last  Andrew  came  down,  and  his  eyes  were  red  as 
though  he  had  been  weeping;  he  came  up  to  her  and  pub 
his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  said — 

"I  iiave  had  some  wonderful  news,  Nannie;  this  letter 
is  from  Level's  lawyer." 

"  From  his  lawyer?"  she  said,  wondcringly. 

"  Yes;  he  tells  me  that  my  poor  .brother  is  dead."  His 
voice  choked,  and  for  a  moment  he  could  not  go  on; 
then  said,  ''  Oh,  Nannie,  I  am  so  grieved!" 

Nannie,  with  tender  sympathy,  stroked  his  hand, 
whiie  little  Dita  kissed  and  coaxed  his  leg.  round  which 
she  had  wound  her  arms.  Then,  to  Nannie's  surprise,  he 
suddenly  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  gave  an  odd  little 
Jau°h. 


52  DITA. 

"  Something  very  wonderful  has  happened,  wife. 
Lovel  has  left  mo  everything  he  possessed.  He  made 
liis  will  'oeforo  he  was  taken  ill  with  fever,  and  1  am  his 
heir." 

"Poor  Lovel! — he  always  loved  you  beyond  any  one 
else.  So  he  leaves  no  widow,  which  is  happy  for  her, 
poor  thing." 

"He  never  was  married,"  said  Andrew  sharply. 

"  No,  love.  I  was  onlv  thinking  a  widow  might  have 
been  left." 

"  No;  I  am  his  sole  heir — his  residuary  legatee." 

"  You  will  l)e  able  to  increase  the  business,  Andy,  and 
have  more  help  in  the  shop." 

"Help  in  the  shop!  —  increase  the  business!  No 
more  business  for  me;  we  shall  be  rich,  and  live  in  the 
country." 

Nannie  clasped  her  hands  in  delight. 

"  In  the  country!  Dita  to  be  brought  np  in  the  sweet 
country  air,  among  daisies  and  roses  and  flowers;  is  it  true, 
Andy?" 

"And  cows  and  chickens  and  ducks,"  he  added,  half 
laughing,  and  yet  with  a  gasp. 

"  We  shall  live  in  some  sweet  little  house  with  a  garden, 
Andy — shall  it  not  have  a  garden?" 

But  Andrew  straightened  himself  in  his  chair,  and 
pulled  up  his  stock,  and  said  rather  pompously — 

"  No,  my  dear;  in  a  great  house  with  a  park  round 
it.  We  shall  be  very  rich;  we  shall  have  a  great  many 
servants,  and  you  will  drive  out  in  a  carriage  of  your  own, 
and  Dita  shall  learn  to  sing,  and  dance,  and  play  on  the 
piano." 

"  And  Fluff,  daddy?" 

"Fluff  shall  have  a  new  collar,  with  silver  bells." 

"  Airl.  Jaqnes  a  new  violin?" 

"  The  best  that  can  be  found." 

"And  dolly?" 

"Hush,  Dita,"  said  Nannie,  rather  solemnly,  and 
she  put  her  hand  into  her  husband's;  he  felt  that  she  was 
trembling. 

"  It  frightens  me,"  she  said;  "  we  are  not  born  to  these 
things." 

"I  will  teach   you,  Nannie,'*  said    Andrew,   majestic- 


DITA.  53 

ally;  "  I  feel  already  as  if  my  career  were  about  to  com- 
mence." 

"But  you  are  so  clever  and  I  am  so  foolish,"  cried 
Nannie,  sobbing. 

Andrew,  kindly  patting  her  shoulder,  went  on:  "  We 
shall  have  between  ten  and  twelve  thousand  a-year,  and 
there  is  a  very  large  sum  of  ready  money,  with  which  my 
poor  brother  had  intended  to  buy  an  estate  in  the  conn  try, 
and  settle  down  as  an  English  squire." 

Nannie  raised  her  head,  and  dried  her  eyes. 

"  It  will  be  a  great  change,"  she  said;  "but  how  did 
poor  Lovel  ever  make  such  a  fortune?" 

"  lie  has  had  such  good  fortune  as  few  have  had,"  he 
answered;  ''and  he  was  very  clever;  he  knew  when  to 
buy,  and  when  to  sell.  The  income  we  shall  enjoy 
comes  from  the  large  estates  he  has  bought — great  sheep- 
farms;  and  these  are  in  very  trustworthy  hands,  in  which 
he  always  meant  to  leave  them  when  he  came  home." 

"  God  help  us  to  manage  well!''  said  Nannie,  reverently. 
Andrew  said  "Amen;"  but  his  thoughts  were  in  such  a 
whirl,  and  he  was  already  building  such  castles  in  the 
air,  that  he  scarcely  took  in  the  fervor  of  her  words. 

Dita,  longing  to  tell  the  news  first  to  some  one,  had 
slipped  off  Nannie's  knee,  and  flown  into  the  shop  to 
Jaques. 

Some  one  was  buying  a  book,  and  she  had  to  stand  im- 
patiently waiting  till  the  customer  was  gone;  then  she 
climbed  on  to  the  counter,  and  began  her  story. 

"Father  no  more  shop — we  all  going  away  to  live  with 
ducks  and  the  daisies." 

Jaques  looked  bewildered,  as  well  he  might. 

"Going  away,  miss,"  he  repeated.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"We  rich — quite  rich,  and  live  with  the  ducks  and 
daisies;  and  Fluff  have  a  silver  bell,  and  you  have  a  new 
fiddle  with  paint  all  over  it." 

Jaques  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  folding  up  the 
books  that  he  had  sold  in  neat  parcels,  and  directing  them 
with  a  pen  which  he  took  from  behind  his  ear.  She  was 
accustomed  to  his  going  on  with  his  business  while  she 
talked,  and  had  just  begun:  "You  must  come,  too, 
Jaquy,"  when  Andrew  came  into  the  shop,  and  briefly 
told  Jaques  what  had  happened:  he  was  touched  by  the 


&4  D1TA. 

l.-ul's  manner:  Jaques's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he 
seized  his  master's  hand,  saying  earnestly — 

"God  bless  yon.  sir,  wherever  yon  go!  you  have  been 
a  good  master  to  me." 

A  gentleman  came  into  the  shop  and  asked  for  a  rare 
edition  of  "  Dante."  Andrew  did  not  quite  know  where 
it  was,  but  Jaques  knew  every  book  on  the  shelves,  and 
produced  the  copy  required.  This  was  no  time  for  senti- 
ment— this  busy  time  of  year — the  middle  of  the  London 
Reason. 

Nannie  went  about  her  work  with  her  heart  so  full  that 
now  and  then  the  large  tears  rolled  clown  her  cheeks:  she 
kept  telling  herself  how  glad  and  thankful  she  ought  to 
feel,  and  what  a  joy  this  new  wealth  would  be;  but  the 
responsibility  seemed  to  outweigh  the  j  >y,  and  her  unfit- 
ness  for  such  responsibility  made  her  dread  it  beyond 
'measure. 

When  Andrew's  last  customers  were  gone,  he  leant 
wearily  against  the  -counter,  while  the  ever-active  Jaques 
\vas  putting  up  the  shutters. 

"  I  shall  not  sell  another  book,  Jaques,"  he  said. 

Jiiqnes's  eyes  opened  wide. 

"Not  one;  those  that  remain  will  form  the  commence- 
ment of  a  library  for  me." 

"  Oh,  master,  master!"  cried  Jaques,  in  an  agony; 
"  why  did  yon  let  that  '  Dante '  go?" 

"  I  was  a  fool!"  cried  Andrew,  striking  his  hand  on  the 
table;  "but  I  am  bewildered  and  tired,  Jaques,  and  it  is 
always  in  my  head — 

"  '  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  confused, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable, 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  utter  in  the  streets: 
My  ducats — O  my  brother — O  my  ducats!' 

First  one,  then  t'other,  I  am  up  and  down  with  joy  and 
grief  like  buckets  in  a  well.  To-morrow,  Jaques,  we  will 
write  up  that  the  shop  is  closed." 

On  the  next  day  a  notice  to  that  effect  was  pasted  all 
over  the  closed  shutters  of  the  shop. 

An  old  gentleman,  or  rather  a  man  whom  too  much 
study  had  prematurely  aged,  was  passing  by  the  door  and 
saw  the  notice.  He  knew  of  a  treasure  within  that  shop, 
and  trusted  that  no  one  from  without  knew  of  it  but  him- 
self. He  had  his  suspicions  of  Jaques,  who  knew  Lh« 


DITA.  55 

Value  of  a  book,  Andrew  was  wont  to  say,  by  its  very  smell. 
But  Jaques  had  asked  as  high  a  price  for  this  treasure  (no 
less  than  De  Bry's  Virginia  in  English)  as  he  dared,  trust- 
ing with  a  trembling  heart  that  Ins  customer  would  find 
it  beyond  his  means,  and  that  he  might  preserve  it  in  the 
shop. 

The  scholar  had  entered  into  a  daily  correspondence  on 
the  subject,  always  coming  in  about  five  o'clock,  looking 
lovingly  at  the  precious  volume,  offering  a  little  more  or  a 
little  less,  while  Jaqnes  stood  respectfully  by,  with  a  beat- 
ing heart,  dreading  every  moment  he  might  offer  the  sum 
he  himself  had  named. 

Now  on  this  bright  June  morning  the  scholar  was  pass- 
ing by,  and  he  saw  the  shop  shut  up.  The  perspiration 
started  out  upon  his  brow — an  indescribable  shiver  passed 
down  his  back  and  he  precipitately  rushed  to  the  door. 

A  smile  was  on  Jaques'sface — a  fiendish  grin  the  scholar 
termed  it  afterward — as  he  told  him  with  all  courtesy  that 
the  coveted  treasure  was  no  longer  to  be  sold. 

He  gnashed  his  teeth;  he  offered  sums  of  money  that 
made  Jaques  softly  go  and  shut  the  back  door. 

He  heard  (he  story  with  a  bitter  spirit — that  Fairdou 
had  succeeded  to  a  fortune,  and  was  determined  to  keep  his 
books  to  commence  his  own  librarv. 

"  I  will  give  any  one  anything  they  ask  in  future,"  he 
said  bitterly  to  himself,  as  he  thrust  his  hat  upon  his 
head,  unwitting  that  he  had  brushed  it  all  the  wrong  way, 
"and  never  attempt  to  bargain  again — fool,  fool  that  I 
was!" 

A  friend  met  him  and  took  his  quivering  arm,  and 
heard  with  composure  the  terrible  story  of  his  wrongs. 

"Never  mind,  old  boy!"  he  said,  soothingly,  ''keep 
your  eye  on  him;  these  sort  of  nouveaux  riches  constantly 
c  itne  to  grief,  and  you  will  get  it  for  half  the  price." 

It  was  sorry  comfort,  for  Andrew  Fairdon  never  came 
to  grief,  and  the  scholar  had  a  thorn  rankling  in  his  flesh, 
as  long  as  he  should  live  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"I  HAVE  never  told  you  one  condition  of  our  wealth, 
Nannie,"  said  Mr.  Fairdoiv,  a  few  days  after  UK  arrival 
of  the  wonderful  news — "  we  have  to  change  our  name." 


56  DITA. 

"Indeed,  Andy,  it  seems  that  our  very  skins  will  be 
changed!"  said  his  wife.  "  What  new-fangled  name 
shall  \ve  have  to  adopt?" 

"Lovel;  it  is  in  my  poor  brother's  will.  You  have 
heard  me  speak  of  Mr.  Lovel  who  lived  in  Henrietta 
Street;  he  was  of  very  high  family,  though  he  was  111 
trade,  lie  was  my  brother's  godfather:  my  father  had 
done  him  a  service  once,  and  he  was  very  kind  to  him 
afterward.  Somewhere  about  there  is  a  mug  which  he 
gave  Lovel  at  his  christening — Dita  might  have  it  to  use. 
How  shall  you  like  to  be  Mrs.  Lovel,  wife?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  It  does  not  come  natural  to  a  woman 
of  my  age  to  be  changing  my  name,  like  a  new-married 
girl." 

"There  is  a  great  deal  to  think  of,  Nannie,"  said  An- 
drew, striking  his  brow;  "first,  for  your  part,  you  must 
have  some  mourning." 

"  I  have  thought;  of  that,  and  can  manage  very  well. 
I  have  my  black  stuff  as  good  new,  and  Dita  can  have  one 
like  it,  made  of  the  same;  then  with  a  couple  of  black 
and  white  prints  each  (I  saw  some  pretty  ones  in  a  win- 
dow this  morning)  .and  a  black  ribbon  to  my  bonnet,  we 
shall  do  very  well." 

Andrew  solemnly  seated  himself,  and  drew  a  long 
breath. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  really  must  endeavor  to 
attune  your  mind  to  our  change  of  circumstances.  I 
foresee  difficulties,  but  if  you  try  to  please  me,  you  will 
overcome  them  in  time,  and  acquire  that  elegance  which 
is  indispensable  in  the  wife  of  one  who  will  henceforth 
figure  among  the  landed  gentry.  To  begin  with,  you 
may  give  your  black  gown — all  your  gowns — to  Betty; 
they  are  useless  now." 

"  My  dear " 

"Have  the  goodness  to  listen  to  me.  I,  being  a  man, 
do  not  of  course  know  what  your  dress  must  be,  but  I  do 
know  that  yon  should  always  wear  silk  and  velvet  or  satin 
on  Sundays;  and  you  must  have  low  gowns  for  dinner." 

"Never,  never!"  cried  Nannie;  "me  in  a  low  gown! 
Oh,  Andy,  1  would  as  soon  come  down  without  any  gown 
at  all!" 

"But  all  ladies  of  fashion  do,"  said  Andrew,  rather 
crossly. 


EITA,  5? 

"But  I  am  r.ot  a  lady;  do  not  make  me  ridiculous.  I 
will  wear  silk  us  much  as  you  like  of  an  afternoon,  and 
merino,  or  something  fine  and  soft,  to  muddle  about  in 
of  a  morning;  but  a  low  gown!  no." 

"Well  you  will  displease  me  very  much  if  you  do  n<-t 
make  every  effort  to  be  iu  your  right  place,"  said  Anu:e\, ; 
and  Nannie's  eyesfilled  with  tears.  "  And,"  he  continued, 
"  there  are  several  more  things  of  importance  to  tell  yoi 
one  is,  that  henceforth  1  shall  cease  to  call  you  by  the  fa- 
miliar Nannie,  and  you  likewise  must  substitute  Mr. 
Lovel  or  Andrew  for  Andy:  I  shall  call  vouAnne.  or 
Mrs.  Lovel." 

'•  I  shall  not  know  my  own  name,"  cried  Nannie,  pite- 
ously. 

"  Yon  are  quite  unreasonable,  and  will  really  vex  me, 
Mrs.  Lovel,"  cried  her  husband. 

Nannie,  notwithstanding  all  her  troubles,  could  not 
help  smiling  at  the  name.  "  What  are  you  laughing  at?'' 
he  said,  sharply. 

"Indeed,  deary,  I  only  smiled  at  my  own  name;  but  I 
will  try  to  do  all  you  wish,"  said  she,  humbly,  coming  up 
and  putting  her  hands  on  his;  "  only  you  must  be  patient 
with  me,  honey,  and  not  expect  poor  Nannie  to  become  a 
grand  lady  all  at  once." 

He  was  restored  to-good-humor,  and  said. — "  Well,  my 
dear,  if  you  will  do  your  best,  I  shall  have  no  cause  to  be 
ashamed  of  you." 

The  words  jarred  on  Nannie's  ear — "  Ashamed  of  her!" 
would  it  really  come  to  that?  If  he  could  admit  the 
possibility  of  such  a  feeling  in  his  mind,  some  mischief 
was  already  done.  Oh,  how  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she 
hated  the  possession  of  Level's  large  fortune!" 

Nannie  was  wise,  and  saw  that  in  the  matter  of  dress 
she  would  please  her  husband  by  changing  at  once.  So 
she  dressed  little  Perdita  in  a  fresh  white  frock,  and  went 
with  her  to  a  good  dressmaker  in  Bond  Street. 

Mr-.  Blunt  was  at  home,  and  they  were  taken  upstairs 
into  a  show-room  full  of  bonnets  and  caps  and  lace  to 
Di  til's  delight, 

Mrs-    Blunt    was    attending    to    a    very    magnificently 

dressed  lady  with  a  pug  in  her  arms;  and  nodding  to  Mrs. 

Fairdon,  she  said,  '•  Sit  down  ma'am,  and  I'll  come."   As 

.•••feat  lady  left  the  room,  Nmjuie  could,  ijot  help  hear- 


58  DITA. 

ing  the  dressmaker  say  in  a  loud  whisper  outside  tho 
door,  "  Mury  Anne,  why  did  you  show  the  person  in 
here?" 

Then  Mrs.  Blunt  came  back,  and  sitting   down,  said — 

"  Well,  and  what  can  I  do  for  you.  ma'am?'5 

Poor  Nannie's  cheeks  had  become  very  red — no  one 
could  say  what  it  was  to  her,  this  being  out  of  her  own 
sphere;  her  good  taste  led  her  to  be  simple,  and  she  told 
her  story. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  make  me  some  gowns, 
ma'am,"  she  said.  "  We  have  been  simple  folks,  but  my 
husband  has  inherited  a  large  property,  and  wishes  me  to 
dress  becomingly;  and  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to 
you,  ma'am,  if  you  would  advise  me  in  what  way  to  do 
so." 

The  dressmaker  was  touched  by  the  total  absence  of  af- 
fectation, and  said,  warmly,  "Indeed,  ma'am,  I  shall  be 
most  happy,  and  I  will  do  my  very  best  for  you  and  little 
miss." 

'•  Yes,"  said  Nannie,  brightening,  "  I  should  like  her 
to  be  very  well  dressed — mostly  in  white,  I  think,  as  we 
are  to  live  in  the  country." 

The  two  women  sat  down  together,  and  made  out  a  list 
which  rather  startled  Nannie  by  its  length.  To  her  great 
relief  Mrs.  Blunt  told  her  that  at  her  age  she  need  not 
wear  a  low  gown,  and  promised  her  a  conplo  of  suitable 
ones  for  the  evening,  cut  square  and  filled  in  with  soft 
muslin;  and  she  went  away  with  cordial  thanks. 

For  the  next  few  weeks  Andrew  was  always  coming 
and  going;  lie  was  anxious  to  find  a  place  which  would 
realize  his  idea  of  what,  a  country  gentleman's  seat 
should  be. 

It  was  more  difficult  than  he  had  imagined.  Some  were 
too  small,  others  not  grand  enough;  some  were-  too 
modern.  His  great  wish  was  to  have  something  old,  feel- 
ing as  if  the  dignity  of  age  would  shed  a  borrowed  luster 
over  himself. 

Meanwhile  Nannie  counted  every  day  a  respite,  and  one 
gained.  She  persuaded  her  husband  not  to  bid  her  don 
her  new  clothes  till  they  should  leave  Edgar  Street,  and 
he  consented  very  reluctantly.  She  was  singularly  sen- 
sitive to  ridicule,  and  would  have  feared  to  pass  her  cwu 
threshold  into  the  familiar  street. 


JHTA.  59 

This  was  a  sad  time  for  Jaqucs:  lie  spent  all  his  clays 
among  the  books,  poring  over  them,  handling  them  lov- 
ingly, touching  and  retouching  the  catalogue  he  had  made 
of  them  some  time  ago,  and  adding  to  it  fresh  comments 
— for  he  was  aware  that  his  master  knew  far  less  of  their 
merits  than  he  did,  and  had  always  to  resort  to  Brunet  or 
Lowndes  for  the  information  that  he  carried  in  his  own 
brain.  He  must  leave  them  now — must  go  out  once  more 
into  the  world;  for  nine  years  he  had  lived  in  that  shop 
and  he  loved  every  dark  corner  in  it. 

It  had  been  the  custom  for  him  always  to  join  the  little 
family  at  supper;  but  of  late  he  had  asked  for  his  portion, 
and  carried  it  away  to  eat  by  himself.  There  was  a  One 
tact  in  Jaques,  which  only  Nannie  understood. 

One  morning  Andrew  was  passing  through  the  shop  OR 
his  way  out,  when  Jaques  gently  stopped  him,  saying — 

"  I  have  heard  of  a  new  place,  sir,  and  if  you  could 
make  it  convenient  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would 
give  me  a  character." 

Fairdon  stopped — it  was  on  his  tongue  to  say,  "  What 
do  you  mean?  I  cannot  part  with  you;"  then  his  newly 
acquired  grandness  came  uppermost;  a  recollection  of  ob- 
sequious upholsterers  and  bowing  tailors,  who  waited  on 
his  pleasure  in  a  very  different  manner  from  the  straight- 
forward address  of  the  lad.  So  he  siMd,  grandly — 

"I  shall  be  most  happy,  Danby:  step  into  Mr?.  Level's 
sitting-room  and  bring  me  a  pen  and  paper."  Jaques  had 
not  been  called  Danby  for  nine  years,  but  he  did  as  he  was 
told,  without  a  word. 

Andrew  drew  off  the  gloves  which  he  had  taken  to 
wearing,  and  laying  his  fine  silk  umbrella  on  the  counter, 
Le  began  to  write.  He  could  write  but  slowly,  for  he  was 
practicing  a  large  manly  hand  that  should  look  thoroughly 
unbusiness-like,  and  becoming  to  a  landed  proprietor. 

Having  finished  it,  he  gave  it  to  Jaques  with  a  smile 
that  he  considered  bland,  and  left  the  shop.  Jaques 
looked  wistfully  after  him  before  he  took  his  hat  down 
from  its  old  familiar  peg,  and  went  off  with  his  letter. 

Andrew  came  home  in  great  glee  that  evening.  He 
had  heard,  from  the  land-agent  whom  he  was  employing, 
of  a  place  which  he  thought  would  suit  him  to  perfection 
— a  beautiful  old  place  in  one  of  the  loveliesgfe  counties  of 
England.  He  could  talk  of  nothing  else — of  its  large 


60  DITA. 

deer-park  and  beautiful  trees — of  an  old  oak-paneled  hall 
and  library — and  of  the  neighborhood,  which  was  sup- 
posed to  l)e  exceptionally  good. 

They  were  sitting  late  over  their  supper,  still  talking 
over  the  glories  of  Salford  Abbey,  when  there  came  a  gen- 
tle knock  at  the  door,  and  Jaqaes  came  in. 

'•  You  are  busy/'  he  said,  and  would  have  withdrawn, 
but  Dita  sprang  from  her  seat  and  ran  up  to  him. 

"Jaquy,  you  not  go  away!"  she  cried — "come  in  — 
come  in!"  and  lifting  Flu  if  off  the  seat  he  occupied,  she 
pushed  Jaqnes  into  it,  and  deposited  the  little  dog  ii:  his 
lap. 

But  Jaques  saw  no  welcome  in  his  master's  eye,  and  he 
began  hastily,  "No,  miss,  dear — no."  The  bitterness 
•would  not  be  all  hid,  and  he  continued,  "I  have  no  wel- 
come here  now,  but  I  thought  I  might  take  the  liberty — 
that  is,  I  thought  you  would  like  to  know,  sir,  that  I 
have  got  the  place,  and  am  to  go  to  it  on  Tuesday  week." 

"I  hope  it  is  a  good  place,  my  lad,"  said  Andrew,  ma- 
jestically, "  and  as  comfortable  as  you  deserve." 

Nannie  turned  away  her  head  to  hide  her  tears.  Pita 
looked  very  much  puzzled;  she  again  moved  Fluff,  and  in 
spite  of  Jaqnes's  efforts  to  the  contrary,  began  to  climb 
up  into  his  lap. 

"  Go  away — go  where,  Jaquy?"  stroking  his  troubled 
face  with  her  little  hand. 

"  It  is  you  who  will  go  away,  and  will  leave  Jaques," 
said  the  lad. 

"No,  no,  no,  no,"  said  the  child;  "Jaquy  must  come 
with  me  and  Fluff.  Daddy,  Jaquy  must  come." 

Jaques  put  her  down  and  ran  away;  he  would  not  let 
them  see  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks.  Dita  would 
not  be  comforted — she  cried  and  sobbed  till  they  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  her.  "  I  must  have  Jaquy — I  must 
have  Jaquy  and  Fluff." 

Andrew  fought  hard  against  his  better  self  to  keep  up 
his  dignity,  and  to  be  firm  and  inflexible;  but  Dita's  tears 
and  entreaties  prevailed,  and  he  promised  her  that  she 
should  not  be  separated  from  Jaques. 

"  I  will  make  him  my  private  secretary,  wife,  and  he 
can  look  after  the  library  and  buy  books,"  snid  he. 

Nannie  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  found  Jaques 
gobbing  iu  his  little  room;  his  delight  and  gratitude  at 


DITA.  61 

hearing  the  good  news  were  indescribable;  he  should  not 
have  to  leave  his  beloved  books,  but  be  able  to  collect 
others;  and,  above  all,  he  should  not  be  parted  from  ins 
beloved  little  lady,  and  the  kind  woman  who  had  been 
like  a  mother  to  him. 

When  Nannie  had  comforted  him,  she  went  back  to 
Dita,  whom  she  found  Bitting  on  the  floor,  hugging  her 
dog.  .  Fluff  was  coiled  up  in  her  lap,  unwitting  that 
from  his  humble  position  he  had  become  a  landed  dog. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

AXDREW  did  not  express  the  wish  of  his  heart  in 
words,  which  was  that  Nannie  would  leave  the  purchase 
of  the  house  in  his  hands,  without  seeing  it,  or  express- 
ing any  opinion  as  to  its  desirability.  He  knew  that  she 
would  do  all  in  her  power  to  make  him  adopt  a  humbler 
and  more  modest  style  of  life,  and  this  he  was  determined 
not  to  do. 

Nannie,  however,  perceived  his  wish,  as  she  always  did. 

"  Andrew,  love,  never  mind  me  in  settling  it  all. 
Though  you  know  what  I  would  like  best,  I  am  quite 
ready  to  think  it  all  beautiful;  so  just  you  go  your  own 
way,  and  let  it  be  a  surprise  to  me." 

"I  think  that  is  a  wise  decision,"  said  he;  "these 
things  are  more  in  my  line  than  yours." 

"Just  tell  me,"  she  said,  "who  the  people  are  that 
are  selling  it,  dear;  and  why,  if  it  is  such  an  old  place, 
they  don't  keep  it  for  themselves?" 

"  The  people  are  called  Norton,"  he  answered.  "  Sir 
John  Norton  has  just  died,  and  the  estate  becomes  the 
property  of  his  son  Sir  Edward,  who  is  only  a  boy.  Sir 
John  was  so  deeply  in  debt  that  everything  had  to  be  sold, 
and  the  place  was  not  entailed,  so  it  went  also.  The 
widow  and  Sir  Edward  Norton  have  an  income  of  about 
£1500  a-year;  they  are  to  live  in  her  dower  house,  the 
Grange,  which  is  about  five  miles  from  the  park  gates." 

"  What  park  gates,  love?" 

"  The  lodge  of  Salford  Abbey." 

"  And  what  have  you  done  about  furniture?" 

"I  have  ordered  it  all  to  be  bought  as  it  stands;  but 
Lady  Norton,  of  course,  has  a  great  many  things  of  her 


62  DITA. 

own,  and  all  of  these  have  been  moved  to  the  Grange,  so 
•we  shall  have  some  things  to  buy." 

"  Well,  let  me  know,  by-ahd-by,  in  good  time  to  pack 
for  the  flitting,,"  said  Nannie,  "and  I  Avill  not  trouble 
you  with  more  questions." 

"The  flitting  indeed!  I  must  beg.  Mrs.  Level,  that 
you  will  not  pack  anything.  The  tables  and  chairs  here 
are  not  fit  for  the  scullery  of  Salford  Abbey.  Everything 
must  begin  brand-new.  Mr.  Smith  has  undertaken  to 
engage  servants  for  the  whole  establishment." 

Nannie  gave  a  little  gasp.    "  How  many  must  we  have?" 

"  Here  is  the  list." 

"  A  lady's  maid!  what  can  I  do  with  a  grand  lady  to 
wait  on  me?" 

"  Why,  let  her  wait  on  you,  to  be  sure." 

"Ah,  well,  she  can  help  me  with  making  Dita's  things." 

It  was  on  the  point  of  Andrew's  tongue  to  say — "  You 
must  never  make  anything  more  for  JDita;"  but  he  sup- 
pressed the  words,  comforting  himself  by  thinking  that 
it  would  look  maternal  and  interesting;  but  to  poor  Nan- 
nie it  seemed  that  everything  tlu>t  she  said  or  did  was 
wrong:  how  should  she  teach  herself?  She  took  away  the 
list  to  think  over  and  study. 

In  the  kitchen  Dita  and  Jaques  were  sitting,  the  former 
making  her  slave  tell  her  stories  of  the  possessions  she 
would  soon  call  her  own;  of  a  pony  to  ride,  and  swans  to 
feed,  cows  to  see  milked,  and  flowers  to  pick.  They  were 
all  living  in  a  world  of  unreality,  and  Nannie  began  to 
long  for  the  crisis  to  be  over. 

Up  to  the  present  time,  about  once  a  year,  Master  Mal- 
colm had  written  from  Dunmonaigh,  asking  for  news  of 
Assunta's  child,  whom  he  always  called  by  the  ceremoni- 
ous name  of  Margaret  Grisekla,  unwitting  that  her  adopted 
parents  had  changed  her  name;  and  Andrew  had  been  very 
careful  always  in  keeping  up  the  illusion.  The  fact  that 
any  one  should  know  that  his  little  Dita  had  been  taken 
by'him  from  the  workhouse,  was  indescribably  galling  to 
him  in  his  new  circumstances;  and  when  the  annual 
letter  arrived,  he  saw  a  way  of  cutting  off  the  inquiries  of 
the  Minister,  and  causing  him  to  lose  sight  of  them  alto- 
gether, as  he  carefully  abstained  from  answering  it,  and 
left  a  commission  with  a  neighbor  to  write  after  lie  had 
quitted  Edgar  Street,  and  say  that  Mr.  Fairdon  and  his 


DITA.  63 

family  had  left  the  neighborhood — that  they  had  assumed 
another  name  on  inheriting  a  considerable  property,  and 
had  left  no  address.  The  Minister  was  thus  compelled  to 
give  up  all  intercourse  with  them,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
every  tie  was  cut  off  between  Perdita  and  her  native 
country. 

At  last  the  great  day  came:  little  Dita  was  wild  with 
excitement  and  delight,  Andrew  more  pompous  than  ever, 
and  poor  Mrs.  Lovel  (for  she  had  now  fairly  adopted  her 
new  name)  quite  shaky  and  tremulous.  No  one  knew 
what  it  cost  her  to  be  dressed  by  the  weeping  Betty  in  that 
black  silk  gown  which  looked  as  if  it  might  stand  alone, 
in  the  black  lace  shawl  and  feathered  bonnet;  but  the 
dress  became  her  well,  and  the  good  taste  of  the  dress- 
maker having  come  to  her  aid,  she  looked  quite  as  she 
should  do,  and  was  free  from  superfluous  trimmings. 

Dita  was  all  in  white,  with  daisies  in  her  hat.  The 
child  had  an  innate  look  of  noble  race;  and  the  difference 
of  dress  did  not  alter  her  appearance. 

It  was  settled  that  Mr.  Lovel  and  Jaques  should  start 
first,  and  that  Mrs.  Lovel  and  Dita  should  follow  by  a 
train  two  hours  later;  thus  Andrew  could  see  that  all  was 
ready  for  their  reception.  He  was  very  anxious  that  she 
should  be  pleased — more  anxious  than,  he  cared  to  show, 
or  even  to  allow  to  himself. 

Nannie  was  met  at  the  London  station  by  a  footman, 
who  touched  his  hat  and  told  her  that  he  had  taken  their 
places.  She  would  fain  have  carried  her  own  bag,  but  it 
was  civilly  taken  from  her,  and  sho  followed  in  haste  into 
the  station. 

It  was  a  comfort  when  she,  and  the  child,  and  Fluff 
were  safe  in  the  train,  and  the  footman  had  given  her  the 
tickets.  Dita  could  not  sit  still;  she  went  from  one  win- 
dow to  another,  and  chattered,  and  felt  certain  that  every 
station  they  passed  must  be  the  right  one. 

At  last  the  long-expected  name  was  shouted — Langford 
Junction — and  the  footman  threw  open  the  door.  A 
small  private  omnibus  with  a  pretty  brown  horse  was 
stan il ing  outside. 

"  From  Salford?"  asked  the  man;  and  on  hearing  the 
answer  in  the  aftimative,  handed  in  Mrs.  Lovel,  and  went 
back  for  the  luggage.  The  coachman  did  not  wait:  the 
little  omnibus  was  whirled  away,  and  poor  Nannie  held 


64  DITA. 

Dita's  hand  fast  in  her  nervousness,  infecting  the  sensi- 
tive child  with  something  like  her  own  sensations. 

Meanwhile,  the  footman,  sorting  his  luggage,  was  ac- 
iosted  by  a  very  grand  lady,  who  asked  him,  condescend- 
ingly, what  was  waiting  to  take  her  to  Salford  Abbey. 
She  told  him  that  she  was  the  new  housekeeper,  and  was 
expected  to  arrive  by  this  train.  Going  out  of  the  sta- 
tion, Eobert  was  astonished  and  dismayed  by  finding  that 
the  omnibus  was  gone  and  a  brougham  waiting;  he  saw 
the  mistake  he  had  made,  perceiving  that  the  brougham 
must  have  come  for  the  lady,  and  the  omnibus  for  the 
housekeeper.  However,  it  was  too  late  to  remedy  the  mis- 
take, and  Mrs.  Poole  got  into  the  brougham  and  started 
on  her  drive. 

Andrew  and  Jaques  were  waiting  at  the  window  watch- 
ing for  the  travelers  to  come:  when  the  omnibus  came 
into  view  they  were  astonished  that  it  should  have  started 
first.  A  footman  came  and  told  Andrew  that  Mrs.  Poole 
had  arrived,  and  had  brought  Miss  Lovel  with  her:  they 
had  been  shown  into  the  housekeeper's  room. 

Andrew's  heart  misgave  him,  and  bidding  Jaques  fol- 
low, he  went  down  stairs,  and  found  Nannie  very  much 
bewildered,  not  knowing  where  she  was.  The  servants 
who  were  present  did  not  know  which  way  to  look,  but 
Nannie  tranquilly  took  Dita's  hand,  aud  followed  her  hus- 
band up  stairs;  but  she  knew  iu  her  heart  that  it  was  an 
unfortunate  beginning. 

Salford  Abbey  retained  much  of  its  monastic  character. 
It  was  a  large,  low  house,  built  round  a  square  court  filled 
with  grass,  and  having  in  the  center  a  stone  well.  The 
passages  round  this  court  had  been  cloisters,  and  their 
beautiful  tracery  had  been  kept  in  very  good  order,  and 
•vas  greatly  admired.  Glass  windows  closed  the  arches 
now,  and  glass  doors  opened  on  to  the  grass.  The  en- 
trance into  the  front  of  the  house  was  by  a  low  door  cov- 
ered thickly  with  ivy:  it  darkened  the  window  which  gave 
light  to  the  long,  narrow,  stone  lobby  into  which  it  opened, 
so  that  the  first  effect  on  entering  was  one  of  darkness  and 
gloom.  This  lobby  ended  in  a  low  arch,  before  which 
hung  a  fine  tapestry  portiere,  and  from  thence  you  emerged 
into  what  had  formerly  been  the  refectory,  and  was  now  a 
large  hall  the  full  height  of  the  house.  This  hall  was  the 
great  beauty  of  Salford.  It  was  paneled  with  black 


DITA.  65 

and  decorated  with  old  armor  and  banners;  over  the  chim- 
ney-piece was  a  fine  trophy  of  arms,  and  the  straight- 
backed  oak  chairs  were  all  covered  with  heraldic  shields. 
Andrew  Lovel  had  indeed  achieved  his  wish  to  become 
possessor  of  an  old  feudal  place.  On  one  side  of  the  hall 
was  a  row  of  low  square  windows  which  looked  into  the 
cloisiers,  and  formerly  opened  into  them,  but  were  now 
filled  with  glass;  each  of  these  windows  had  a  seat  ot  most 
inviting  character.  A  great  oak  table  in  the  center  of  the 
hall  was  covered  with  flowers,  and  fine  pots  of  pyramidal 
azaleas  stood  in  the  corners. 

The  hall  was  lighted  by  a  great  window  in  the  east  wall, 
filled  with  armorial  bearings  in  stained  glass. 

Doors  from  the  hall  led  to  the  more  modern  part  of  the 
house — to  the  drawing-rooms,  and  the  dining-room — 
which  was  paneled  with  oak  like  the  hall. 

Xannie  looked  round  and  felt  her  heart  sink,  as  it  had 
never  sunk  before;  in  her  happiest  dreams  she  had  thought 
of  bright  sunny  rooms,  clean  crackling  chintzes,  lace  anti- 
maccassars,  and  glittering  chandeliers;  but  how  unlike 
this  was  to  what  she  had  exj-c-cted!  A  weight  seemed  to 
have  fallen  upon  her;  those  dreadful  black  walls,  this 
great  resounding  place — it  oppressed  her;  she  felt  as  if  she 
never  could  be  her  own  self  there.  It  was  better  when 
the  housemaid  came  to  take  her  up  to  her  own  room. 
She  left  Dita  with  her  husband,  and  followed  the  kmu- 
looking  Ann. 

The  staircase  was  of  oak  also,  and  very  slippery,  and 
Nannie  had  to  hold  fast  by  the  banisters.  Her  room  was 
in  front  of  the  house,  looking  over  an  expanse  of  green 
park  with  fine  trees.  It  was  very  grand,  she  felt,  but  she 
found  that  one  of  the  little  rooms  opening  into  it  was  to 
be  Dita's,  and  this  was  so  dainty  and  pretty,  all  white 
dimity  and  rosebuds,  that  she  could  think  no  more  of  the 
gloom  of  the  four-post  bed  with  its  canopy  of  yellow  silk. 

Ann  was  lingering  about  with  a  pained  look  on  a  most 
comely  face,  when  it  suddenly  struck  Mrs.  Lovel  what  she 
was  longing  to  say,  but  could  not  get  out. 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  woman's  shoulder,  and  said, 
"Xever  mind;  I  do  not  at  all  wonder  at  your  taking  me 
for  the  housekeeper — you  will  know  me  now." 

She  could  not  help  her  «jes  filling  with  tears.  Ann  wag 
much  touched. 


66  DITA. 

"Ob,  ma'am,  if  I  could  only  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am." 
"You  need  not  mind,"  said  Nannie,  smiling  an  April 
smile;  "you  see  I  have  been  in  a  bumble  position  in  life, 
and  now  tbat  I  am  no  longer  young  enough  to  change  in 
everything,  God  has  seen  fit  to  send  us  great  wealth— so  I 
cannot  hope  to  be  like  my  husband,  who  is,  as  one  may 
say,  born  to  it;  but  don't  fret  any  more,  and  do  your  duty 
by  me,  as  I  will  try  to  do  mine  by  you."  Ann  went  away, 
her  mistress's  friend  for  life. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  next  morning  was  brilliantly  fine,  the  dew  spark- 
ling in  the  sun,  When  Mrs.  Lovel  rose,  she  threw  open 
her  windows,  and  stood  enchanted  by  the  beauty  of  the 
sweet,  fresh  country.  The  park  was  very  undulating,  the 
road  crossed  it  for  about  half  a  mile,  and  then  lost  itself 
in  woods.  Near  the  house  stood  some  large  tree?,  at  the 
entrance  of  a  shrubbery,  and  under  them  the  turf  was  of 
that  thick  velvety  texture  which  no  turf  that  is  not  very 
old  will  ever  attain. 

Nannie  went  in  to  call  Dita;  the  child  was  tired  with 
her  journey,  and  still  slept  very  soundly,  with  her  round 
arms  clasped  over  her  head.  Nannie  woke  her  with  many 
kisses,  and  she  sat  up  rubbing  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  mammie,  how  pretty  you  look!"  she  cried;  and 
Nannie  found  some  pleasure  in  her  pink  dressing-gown, 
as  the  child  admired  it  so  much. 

When  she  was  dressed  and  had  flown  to  the  window  with 
a  cry  of  delight,  Nannie  felt  a  feeling  of  happiness  that 
she  had  not  known  for  a  long  time.  It  was  delightful  to 
be  once  more  in  the  beautiful  country. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  Andrew  said  that  the  agent, 
Mr.  Smith,  was  corning  to  see  him;  and  he  advised  Mrs. 
Lovel  to  enter  into  a  thorough  examination  of  the  house 
from  head  to  foot.  So  Nannie's  first  day  in  her  new  home 
was  a  busy  and  pleasant  one. 

She  summoned  the  housekeeper,  who  accompanied  her 
on  her  rounds;  and  they  opened  every  door  and  every  cup- 
board, examined  wardrobes  and  chests  of  drawers,  looked 
into  the  condition  of  the  stores,  and  were  thoroughly 
busy. 


DITA.  67 

After  luncheon,  which  was  a  terrible  ordeal  to  Mrs. 
Lovel,  Andrew  took  them  out,  and  they  visited  the  beauti- 
ful old-fashioned  garden,  with  its  yew-hedges  and  flower- 
beds, inlaid  in  green  turf.  They  would  have  enjoyed  this 
but  for  the  gardener,  who  insisted  on  taking  them  over 
the  whole  place,  and  into  every  greenhouse  and  hothouse, 
gathering  a  splendid  nosegay  for  Mrs.  Lovel,  and  present- 
ing it  to  her  with  an  air  as  if  all  he  surveyed  was  his 
own. 

The  man  did  not  look  happy;  in  his  heart  he  was  very 
sad,  for  every  one  in  the  place  had  loved  the  Nortons,  and 
the  change  was  bitter.  Nannie  felt  this  instinctively, 
and  shrank  more  into  herself. 

When  she  was  tired  with  her  unwonted  exertions,  she 
went  home  with  Andrew,  and  Dita  and  Jaques  and  Fluff 
continued  their  explorations.  They  went  across  the  park, 
and  looked  down  into  the  lovely  little  trout-stream,  so 
clear  and  swift,  and  followed  it  into  the  woods,  where 
the  silence  was  only  broken  by  a  chorus  of  birds  and  in- 
sects; and  the  smells  of  the  bracken  and  wild-flowers 
almost  intoxicated  the  little  town-bred  child. 

As  time  passed  on  a  trouble  came  on  Nannie,  of  which 
she  had  never  dreamt  in  her  experience;  this  was  that 
most  devouring  of  troubles — ennui:  she  had  nothing  to 
do.  After  breakfast  the  cook  would  come  for  orders,  and 
stay  for  perhaps  ten  minutes;  then  she  took  Dita  out  for 
a  walk;  but  she  was  unused  to  walking,  and  got  easily 
tired,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  was  glad  to  leave  the  child 
with  her  maid,  and  go  home.  Her  own  sitting-room  was 
very  pretty  and  sunny,  and  furnished  with  pleasant  books; 
but  she  had  no  habit  of  reading,  and  her  eyes  were  not 
so  good  as 'they  used  to  be,  and  she  wearied  of  her  books. 
Andrew  had  bought  her  a  fine  piece  of  worsted-work,  but 
she  felt  as  if  it  would  never  be  finished,  and  hated  tne 
regular  pattern.  She  had  no  'other  resources.  Oh  for 
one  morning  of  hearty  scrubbing  and  washing  up!  She 
used  to  sing  gayly  at  her  work^  with  an  eye  on  Dita's 
perilous  amusements  in  the  yard  all  the  time.  Oil  to  see 
Andrew  once  more  in  his  black  apron,  struggling  with 
difficult  rhymes!  His  poetical  irritability  then  was  noth- 
ing to  iy?r:  very  different  from  the  constant  finding  fault 
now,  wnich  only  served  to  make  her  shy  and  awkward. 

In  these  days  Nannie's  soft  hair  turned  very  gray,  and 


68  DITJL.      '    . 

her  voice,  from  its  old  cheery  sweetness,  acquired  a  weak- 
ness in  tone,  and  she  spoke  low,  as  those  do  who  often  cry 
by  themselves  in  secret. 

One  of  the  most  painful  of  the  ordeals  through  which 
Mrs.  Lovel  had  to  puss  was  the  visits  of  the  neighboring 
families;  for  Andrew  was  so  anxious  that  she  should  please 
them  that  it  made  her  painfully  nervous. 

One  day,  about  six  months  after  they  had  been  settled 
at  Salford,  a  large  party  arrived,  consisting  of  a  neighbor- 
ing landowner's  wife,  Mrs.  Lee  Aston,  and  her  daughter, 
and  a  party  of  guests  who  were  staying  with  them,  who 
had  wished  to  see  Salford  Abbey. 

Nannie's  heart  sank  within  her  when  she  saw  how  many 
there  were.  They  were  shown  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  her  nervousness  was  so  great  that  she  could  get  out 
nothing  but  monosyllables. 

Andrew  was  strolling  about  in  the  garden  in  a  studied 
country  gentleman's  dress,  and  she  received  them  alone. 

The  Lee  Astons  came  expecting  to  be  amused,  and 
Andrew,  when  he  came  in,  satisfied  their  fullest  expecta- 
tions. It  Beemed  to  Nannie  that  they  were  drawing  him 
out,  for  he  had  never  appeared  to  so  little  advantage.  He 
took  them  round  the  old  rooms  and  the  cloister,  pomp- 
ously telling  them  the  history  of  the  place,  which  they 
knew  far  better  than  he  did. 

One  of  the  party  was  a  tall  grave  man,  who  seemed  as  if 
he  did  not  enter  into  the  joking  and  laughter  of  the 
younger  people:  he  left  Andrew  to  go  round  with  his 
guests,  and  stayed  behind  with  Mrs.  Lovel. 

"Have  you  met  my  sister-in-law  yet,  Mrs.  Lovel?"  he 
said. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  "for  I  do  not  know 
your  name." 

He  smiled.  "I  am  Mr.  Norton,"  he  said;  "Lady 
Norton  is  my  sister-in-law,  and  I  am  the  guardian  to  the 
boy." 

"  It  seems  very  hard  that  this  place  should  have  left  its 
rightful  owner,"  said  Nannie.  He  looked  at  her  sharply, 
and  then  said  kindly,  "I  am  very  glad  that  it  has  fallen 
into  your  hands.  I  wanted  to  ask  a  great  favor  of  your 
husband,  and  that  is,  to  allow  my  nephew  to  fish  in  the 
trout-stream.  He  is  fond  of  fishing,  and  being  home  from 
Eton  for  the  holidays,  it  will  be  a  great  resource  to  him." 


DHA.  ,  69 

"I  am  sure  Andr — Mr.  Lovel  will  be  honored,  delighted 
I  mean — poor  young  gentleman." 

"  Lady  Norton  would  cull  on  you,  I  know,  but  she  nat- 
urally shrinks  from  returning  here  under  such  different 
circumstances.  There  are  a  great  many  of  the  poor  people 
in  whom  she  is  much  interested,  and  about  whom  it  would 
be  the  greatest  comfort  to  her  to  talk  to  you.  I  wonder  if 
I  might  ask  you  to  call  upon  her?" 

"If  she  would  allow  me — if  she  would  not  think  it  a 
liberty — I  should  be  very  glad." 

The  door  opened  and  Dita  bounded  in,  followed  by  her 
little  dog.  On  seeing  the  stranger  she  stopped,  and 
assumed  a  demure  pace.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
a  prettier  sight  than  this  child,  with  her  great  rare  dark 
eyes  and  the  floating  cloud  of  golden  hair,  which  made  her 
like  a  fairy  child. 

Mr.  Norton  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  went  up  to  him 
with  a  natural  grace  all  her  own. 

"  Your  little  girl,  Mrs.  Lovel?"  he  said,  inquiringly. 

"Yes,  our  little  daughter,"  answered  Nannie,  stroking 
down  the  wild  hair  lovingly. 

Mr.  Norton  felt  surprised  that  anything  so  refined  and 
fairy-like  should  have  been  born  of  humble  parents;  but 
he  s'aid  no  more,  and  the  rest  of  the  party  returning,  they 
took  their  leave. 

They  were  driving  through  the  woods  when  Miss  Lee 
Aston  cried  out — 

"Oh,  look,  mamma,  there  is  an  odd  figure!" 

Against  a  tall  shadowy  birch-tree  stood  Jaques  with 
his  violin  in  his  hand  waiting  till  the  carriage  should  have 
passed,  before  he  resumed  the  music  his  soul  loved. 
Jaque's  large  hands  and  feet,  his  uncouth  face,  which 
looked  rough-hewn  and  not  finished  off,  caused  an  irre- 
sistible laugh.  He  heard,  and  even  in  his  gentle  soul 
arose  a  feeling  of  bitterness;  but  he  comforted  himself  by 
the  wildest  and  most  fantastic  maneuver  on  his  pet  violin. 

One  day  Dita  came  running  into  her  mother's  room 
with  her  face  full  of  the  excitement  of  news. 

"Mammie,  there's  a  'itthe  boy  fishing — may  I  speak  to 
him?  oh,  mammie,  may  I?" 

Mrs.  Lovel  looked  at  her  flushed,  eager  little  face,  and 
seeing  how  much  it  would  delight  her,  consented:  the  boy 
could  be  no  other  than  Edward  Norton.  Jaques  wag 


70  ,  ,  DITA. 

away  in  London  transacting  business  for  Andrew^  «ind 
Dita  was  without  playmates.  Away  she  danced  with 
Fluff  at  her  heels,  far  outstripping  the  sober  pace  of  her 
maid. 

The  boy  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  stream  in  the  wood 
looked  up  at  her  with  a  furious  frown  as  she  danced  up  to 
him;  she  was  so  taken  aback  that  her  poor  little  face  fell 
piteonsly:  he  saw  it,  for  he  turned  round  and  said —  - 

"Never  mind,  you've  frightened  him  away,  and  he 
won't  come  back:  what  do  you  want?" 

.  But  Dita  was  quite  subdued,  she  only  crept  a  little 
nearer  and  hung  her  head. 

"  Well,  out  with  it,  little  un." 

Dita's  courage  came  back  as  fast  as  it  was  gone,  and  she 
sat  down  by  him,  and  lot  a  piece  of  string  she  held  in  her 
hand  go  into  the  water. 

"  I  fish,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  a  funny  little  thing,"  said  the  boy,  who  was 
about  twelve  years  old,  and  very  handsome.  "What  is 
your  name?" 

"  Dita,"  she  said.  "  I  caught  a  fish,"  and  she  drew 
out  a  dead  leaf. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  my  fish?"  said  the  boy;  and 
opening  his  basket  he  showed  to  her  wondering  eyes  the 
glittering  silvery  back  of  a  pretty  trout;  but  alas!  the  sight 
proved  too  exciting  for  the  inquisitive  nature  of  Fluff;  he 
darted  forward,  and  would  have  thrust  his  nose  into  the 
basket,  when  a  sharp  push  from  the  boy  thrust  him  back. 
Fluff  was  a  clumsy  spoilt  pet;  he  rolled  over,  gave  a  little 
squeak,  and  subsided  into  the  trout-stream. 

"Oh,  Fluff!" shrieked  Dita. 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  the  boy;  "he  will  swim  all  right," 
and  he  stood  for  a  moment  watching;  then  he  saw  to  his 
consternation  that  Fluff's  superabundant  coat  was  pulling 
him  down,  that  the  hair  covered  his  bead-like  eyes,  and 
that  he  was  fighting  with  his  paws  above  his  head  instead 
of  below  him.  He  stretched  out  a  branch,  but  Fluff  took 
no  notice.  Dita  stood  motionless  with  her  little  hands 
clasped  together  in  despair.  There  was  no  time  to  lose, 
and  the  boy  jumped  into  the  water,  and  waded  after  the 
poor  pet,  catching  him  up  just  in  time  to  save  his  life. 

He  carried  him  out,  and  Dita  received  Fluff  wringing 


n 

wet  as  he  was  into  her  lap  and  covered  him  with  kisses  and 
tears. 

"You  must  run  home,"  said  the  boy,  standing  dripping 
beside  her;  "and  change  your  things,  or  you,  will  catch 
cold " 

"Come  home  too,"  said  Dita,  rising  and  pulling  his 
hand;  but  the  boy  drew  it  away  roughly,  and  said  with 
bitterness — 

"Not  I — it  is  your  home  now,  not  mine." 

"  Shall  you  be  here  to-morrow,  boy?"  said  Dita. 

"  Yes,  I  will  come  and  see  whether  you  have  caught 
cold." 

Dita  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  and  then  trotted 
away  with  Fluff  in  her  arms,  meeting  her  terrified  maid  on 
her  way. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  door,  Mr.  Lovel  came  out  and 
met  them.  His  consternation  was  great  on  seeing  the 
dripping  condition  of  the  child;  her  frock,  everything  in 
a  deplorable  condition,  and  he  severely  scolded  the  maid 
for  losing  sight  of  her  charge,  while  Dita  flew  away  to  tell 
her  story  to  "  mammie."  The  little  adventure  bore  im- 
portant fruits.  Dita  must  no  longer  run  wild;  her  edu- 
cation must  begin.  For  one  more  happy  unshackled 
mouth  the  child  was  free,  getting  into  innumerable  scrapes, 
and  always  spending  a  thoroughly  happy  part  of  the  day 
with  Edward  Xorton,  who  initiated  her  into  all  sorts  of 
enchanting  amusements,  taught  her  to  climb  trees  and  to 
wade  in  the  water,  to  know  the  names  of  the  trees  and 
flowers,  to  fish  for  hours  with  a  crooked  pin,  to  build  moss- 
houses,  etc.  The  country-bred  boy  found  the  greatest 
amusement  in  teaching  this  sweet  little  Cockney  all  the 
commonest  knowledge  of  country  life.  Then  the  holidays 
came  to  an  end,  and  Edward  went  off  to  his  work,  and 
Dita  was  caught  up  like  a  wild  colt  from  the  grass  to  be 
tamed  and  broken-in  to  harness.  A  governess  arrived — 
a  parcel  of  lesson-books,  a  piano  and  some  globes;  and  one 
snug  little  room  with  windows  opening  into  the  cloister 
was  turned  into  a  schoolroom. 

The  old  life  in  Edgar  Street,  Soho,  had  completely 
passed  away — so  completely  that  no  one  but  the  Lovels 
and  Jaques  knew  that  Dita  was  not  their  child.  This  was 
Andrew's  strong  wish,  and  Nannie  was  not  experienced 
enough  to  see  that  it  might  )§ad  *••«>  embarrassment  in 


72  DITA. 

the  future.  When  Dita  was  about  twelve  years  old,  she 
told  her  the  outline  of  her  parents'  history,  suppressing 
their  names;  and  she  was  glad  to  have  done  so,  as  at 
that  age  the  revelation  was  nothing  compared  to  what 
it  might  have  been  in  the  future.  It  was  curious  to  see 
the  hereditary  peculiarities  developing  themselves  in 
the  girl's  character;  the  enthusiasm  and  strong  powers  of 
loving  and  disliking  of  her  mother's  race — the  chivalrous 
loyalty  from  her  father.  There  was  danger  that  she  might 
become  too  romantic,  too  exalte;  but  her  faithful  Jaqnes 
proved  the  best  educator  she  could  have.  He  directed  her 
enthusiasm  aright;  he  fed  her  imagination  with  truth,  at 
once  encouraging  and  restraining  it;  hours  together  she 
spent  with  him  reading  the  books  he  chose  for  her.  In 
vain  the  conventional  governess  appealed  to  Mrs.  Lovel 
against  this;  she  would  not  listen.  She  saw  that  there 
was  a  necessary  craving  in  Dita's  existence  for  the  great 
and  chivalrous  and  beautiful  things,  and  the  wonderful 
tact  and  sympathy  with  which  nature  had  endowed  the 
uncouth  Jaques  taught  this  also  to  him:  this  want  must 
be  fed,  or  Dita  would  look  round  her  for  what  she  wanted, 
and  in  her  nearest  and  dearest  would  learn  and  mark  its 
absence.  Her  character  developed  slowly:  she  was  gener- 
ous and  unselfish,  full  of  sweetness  and  high  religious  tone; 
and  though  the  time  came  (and  Jaques  alone  knew  that  it 
must  come)  when  she  awoke  to  the  fact  that  the  parents 
whom  she  loved  so  very  dearly  were  not  such  as  she  was, 
never  by  word  or  gesture,  never  even  by  admitting  it  to 
herself,  did  she  betray  it.  She  loved  them  perhaps  all  the 
more  that  the  feeling  roused  up  a  feeling  of  protection  of 
them  from  the  whole  world. 

Dita  grew  and  shot  up;  her  long  golden  hair  was  woven 
into  plaits,  and  she  wore  a  pinafore.  Each  time  that  Ed- 
ward Norton  came  home  from  school,  he  saw  less  of  her, 
and  pronounced  her  quite  spoilt,  and  no  fun:  finally  he 
never  saw  her  at  all,  and  she  passed  on  through  the  last 
stages  of  her  schoolroom  life. 

A  still  greater  change  had  come  over  her  gentle  mother. 
As  year  passed  after  year  it  took  away  a  little  more  life, 
a  little  more  energy.  She  was  fading,  very,  very  slowly — 
imperceptibly  to  all  but  Jaques,  who  through  life  had  been 
her  confidant,  and  who  loved  her  dearly.  He  saw  the  refine- 
ment of  ill-health  stealing  over  her;  he  did  not  mistake  the 


DITA.  ?3 

transparency  of  her  hands  for  the  delicacy  produced  by  the 
life  of  a  fine  lady;  and  that  she  was  always  lying  on  the 
sofa  more  and  more,  told  its  own  tale  to  him.  Andrew 
was  either  too  absorbed  or  would  not  understand.  Nan- 
nie was  fading  early  while  still  in  the  prime  of  life:  she 
was  not  clever,  she  was  not  strong,  and  the  transplanting 
had  wounded  the  tender  little  fibers,  without  which  the 
life  of  the  strongest  plant  grows  faint. 

Jaques  lived  with  his  mother  in  a  pretty  cottage  just  he- 
hind  the  garden;  they  lived  humbly  but  very  happily. 
Under  his  care  the  Salford  library  was  becoming  a  rare 
and  valuable  one,  and  it  flattered  Andrew's  vanity  so  much 
that  learned  men  should  write  to  him  and  ask  for  the 
favor  of  seeing  his  books,  that  in  this  one  particular  he 
permitted  himself  extravagance,  and  Jaques  reveled  in 
the  works  his  carte-Han  die  enabled  him  to  procure. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"YES,  she's  a  stunner!"  pronounced  Mr.  John  Lee 
Aston,  commonly  called  Jack,  the  second  son  of  the  Lee 
Aston  family. 

A  voice  of  a  different  caliber  answered  him  coldly, 
"Whatever  Miss  Lovel  may  be,  there  is  no  standing  the 
father." 

"Money  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,"  said  Jack,  laugh- 
ing; "but  there  is  no  trace  of  the  parvenue  about  the 
fair  Perdita — she  is  the  prettiest  creature  I  ever  saw;  and 
as  for  manners,  I  have  never  seen  her  equal." 

"She  was  a  very  pretty  child,"  answered  Sir  Edward 
Norton.  "But  I  have  been  abroad  so  long  that  I  have 
only  a  slight  recollection  of  her  features;  and  only  a  strong 
recollection  of  that  ass,  her  father,  peppering  me  in  the 
legs  when  your  governor  asked  him  to  shoot  in  your 
coverts.  I  suppose  he  has  not  killed  any  one  since?" 

"He  has  never  handled  a  gun  since,  poor  old  boy.  I 
shall  never  forget  his  face  when  you  tumbled  down;  it 
took  half  the  nonsense  out  of  him  at  a  blow,  and  they  say 
he  is  much  improved." 

"Well,  then,  my  misfortune  has  proved  good  fortune 
for  others,  for  he  used  to  carry  his  gun  like  a  walking- 
stick.  I  insured  my  life  before  I  accepted  your  invitation 


74  DITA. 

to  stay  here  for  this  ball,  as  I  thought  you  would  want  me 
to  walk  through  the  turnips  to-morrow." 

"I  wish  your  mother  would  have  come." 

"  She  is  very  happy  at  the  Grange  with  my  uncle;  and 
she  drives  over  nearly  every  day  to  see  Mrs.  Lovel — it  is 
the  most  wonderful  infatuation." 

"  Is  she  not  a  great  invalid?" 

"  That  is  what  it  is:  it  is  partly  a  sort  of  charity  visit, 
though  I  confess  my  mother  is  devoted  to  her." 

"You  will  see  the  heiress  to-night,"  said  Jack. 

"  What!  is  she  coming  here?" 

"Yes,  it  is  her  first  ball." 

"  Hum!"  Sir  Edward  gave  a  sort  of  growl  and  lighted 
a  cigar;  Jack  followed  his  example,  saying  as  he  did  so, 
hesitatingly — 

"  Ahem — a — I  suppose  it  would  not  really  stand  in  a 
fellow's  way?" 

"  What?—!  don't  understand." 

"Those  sort  of  parents — want  of  family  and  birth;  it's 
a  confounded  nuisance  when  everything  else  is  so  desir- 
able." 

"Do  you  wish  for  the  young  lady,  or  her  money?"  said 
Norton,  coldly. 

"  Both,"  said  the  other.  "I  don't  know  exactly  that 
I  should  have  chosen  a  daughter  of  Andrew  Lovel  as  a 
wife  but  for  the  money;  but,  by  Jove!  I  never  would 
marry  money  unless  I  cared  very  much  for  the  possessor." 

"  DoSDt  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  go8  wheer  munny  is," 

said  Norton,  blowing  a  cloud  of  blue  smoke  into  the  air. 
"  Well,  you  are  wiser  than  I  am;  the  fact  of  a  young  lady 
being  possessed  of  a  large  fortune  makes  me  fight  shy  of 
her  acquaintance.  I  have  seen  enough  of  that,"  he  added, 
bitterly. 

Edward  Norton  was  very  proud,  and  it  had  reached  his 
ears  that  people  coupled  his  name  with  the  .heiress's,  and 
planned  the  return  of  the  old  place  to  the  rightful  family 
through  this  marriage.  Even  his  mother  had  once  im- 
prudently given  a  very  slight  hint  to  that  effect,  which 
had  been  taken  with  the  rapid  swerve  of  a  shying 
thorough-bred.  He  was  far  from  pleased  at  hearing  that 
he  was  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  this  lady  for  two 
or  three  davs. 


DITA.  75 

"  This  is  the  last  visit  I  mean  to  pay,"  he  said,  decid- 
edly. "I  must  go  to  London  and  buckle-to.  If  a  fellow 
has  bis  own  way  to  m:ike  in  the  world,  he  must  not  waste 
time,  Jnit  plod  along  the  road  to  fortune." 

"  1  have  the  same  road  before  me,"  said  Jack,  kicking 
a  pebble  out  of  his  way. 

"  But  you  seem  inclined  to  take  a  short  cut,  Jack." 
"It  saves  a  long,  dry,  dusty  grind  with  one  leap." 
"Well,  I  wish  you  good  hick.     Shall  we  go  in?    It 
must  be  five  o'clock,  and  I  must  take  off  my  boots  before 
joining  the  ladies." 

Edward  Norton  threw  away  his  cigar  and  went  up 
stairs.  His  handsome  dark  face  was  overcast  and  gloomy 
as  he  pulled  off  his- boots  and  threw  them  viciously  across 
the  room.  It  was  unbearable  that  the  very  first  thing 
that  happened  on  returning  to  his  own  country,  should 
be  the  overthrow  of  his  plans  for  carefully  avoiding  any 
intercourse  with  the  inhabitants  of  his  old  home.  He 
imagined  to  himself  that  the  object  of  Jack  Lee  Aston's 
admiration  must  be  a  blooming,  rosy  girl,  stout  and  fair- 
haired,  with  all  the  want  of  refinement  to  be  expected 
from  one  of  Andrew's  race.  It  was  some  years  since  they 
had  met.  The  later  Eton  holidays,  and  all  Oxford  vaca- 
tions, had  been  spent  by  Sir  Edward  with  his  uncle,  Mr. 
Norton,  and  abroad  with  his  mother.  Lady  Norton  had 
encouraged  him  to  be  very  much  with  his  uncle:  she 
feared  lest  the  haughty  and  somewhat  imperious  spirit  of 
her  son  would  be  marred  for  want  of  a  father's  authority. 
In  some  ways  Mr.  Norton  was  the  best  guardian  he  could 
have,  but  by  no  means  in  all.  He  was  a  cold  man,  just 
and  upright,  and  gained  his  nephew's  strong  esteem;  but 
he  had  almost  as  strong  a  share  of  the  hereditary  family 
pride  as  Sir  Edward  himself,  and  involuntarily  encour- 
aged it  in  the  boy.  No  one  guessed  how  bitterly  Edward 
regretted  Salford.  Like  most  imaginative  people,  he  had 
a  passionate  love  for  home.  Lady  Norton,  a  kind-hearted 
but  rather  weak  woman,  found  herself  unable  to  cope 
with  her  son's  faults,  so  she  contented  herself  with  draw- 
ing out  and  strengthening  his  merits,  and  consoled  her- 
self with  the  thought  that  these  faults  were  those  of  a 
generous-minded  but  untamed  nature,  and  that  rough 
contact  with  the  world  would  tone  them  down.  Her  one 
injudicious  hint  about  Dita  Lovel  had  rankled  in  her 


76  DITA. 

mind;  he  looked  upon  his  mother's  friendship  for  Mrs. 
Lovel  as  an  infatuation;  and  so  sensitive  was  he  on  the 
subject  of  the  Level's  that  he  was  half  inclined  to  think 
that  all  were  combined  in  a  conspiracy  to  compel  him  to 
marry  the  heiress.  A  kind  of  stiff  shyness  made  him 
blush  as  he  walked  down  stairs,  and  feel  furious  that  he 
was  doing  so.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  laughing  and 
chattering  going  on  in  the  dravving-roon.  Meta  Lee 
Aston,  a  yomng  lady  no  longer  young,  was. seated  at  the 
piano  with  all  the  younger  members  of  the  party  round 
her,  they  were  trying  to  sing  a  glee,  "Let -the  bumper 
toast  go  round,"  and  enjoying  the  mistakes  they  made. 

Mrs.  Lee  Aston,  Miss  Ashbdrn,  her  elder  sister,  and 
Mrs.  Arthur,  the  eldest  son's  wife,  were  seated  round  the 
tea-table. 

Sir  Edward  possessed  himself  of  the  "Pall  Mall,"  and 
sank  into  a  large  arm-chair  by  a  reading-lamp. 

Tiie  singing  continued.  "  Here's  a  health  to  all  good 
lasses  "  in  a  shrill  treble  all  out  of  place;  and  a  very  un- 
certain bass  began  something  about  a  bumper  toast.  The 
accompanist  took  her  hands  off;  and  the  unlucky  man 
was  heard  to  roar  out  "  lads  and  lasses  fill  your  glasses  " 
before  he  could  stop  his  ponderous  voice.  Being  very 
young,  his  voice  was  uncertainly  powerful,  and  burst  out 
like  .the  notes  of  an  irregularly  blown  organ. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  there  was  a  bustle  of  fresh 
arrivals.  Lord  and  Lady  Armine,  and  Miss  Grethard, 
their  daughter,  and  behind  them  Mr.  and  Miss  Lo'vel. 

There  was  a  great  coming  forward  and  shaking  of 
hands,  and  offers  of  tea,  and  then  every  one  subsided  into 
their  place — the  gentlemen  with  their  backs  to  the  fire 
(for  it  was  September,  and  the  evenings  chill),  and  the 
ladies  taking  off  their  gloves  and  drinking  tea. 

Dita  sat  close  to  Mrs.  Arthur  (as  she  was  always  called), 
a  pretty  little  comfortable  woman,  whose  great  wish  was 
that  every  one  should  be  happy  round  her,  and  who 
thought  that  her  greatest  contribution  toward  the  enter- 
tainment of  her  mother-in-law's  guests,  was  to  take  them 
up  to  see  her  four  fat  children  in  bed.  She  was  very 
kind,  and  in  a  soft,  purring  voice  put  Dita  at  her  ease; 
for  it  is  formidable,  even  to  the  experienced,  that  arrival 
m  a  hot  room  at  tea-time,  when  every  one  is  at  home  and 
amused,  and  the  guest  comes  in  dazzled  from  the  darkness 


DITA.  .  7? 

outside,  and  finds  it  difficult  to  recognize  friends  in  the 
glare  of  light — and  the  tea  seems  supernaturallj  hot;  but 
Mrs.  Arthur's  soft  remarks  enabled  her  to  swallow  the 
bread-and-butter  she  was  too  shy  J;o  refuse. 

Sir  Edward's  eyes,  in  spite  of  himself,  wandered  to 
Miss  Lovel;  but  she  sat  with  her  back  to  him,  and  he 
could  only  see  a  large  sombrero  hat,  the  shadow  of  which 
hid  even  her  hair.  He  was  not  acquainted  with  the 
Armines,  and  he  did  not  think  it  worth  while,  after  the 
first  civil  rise  from  his  seat  on  their  entrance,  to  move 
from  his  comfortable  chair. 

Sooner  than  usual,  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  rose,  and  said  in 
her  cheery  voice,  "As  dinner  is  at  seven  to-night,  I  am 
sure  you  will  like  to  go  up  and  rest  a  little  now;  I  have 
ordered  the  carriages  at  nine,  for  Lady  Waldon  is  very 
anxious  that  her  ball  should  begin  early.  Mary,  my  dear, 
if  you  are  going  up  stairs,  will  you  show  Miss  Lovel  her 
room?" 

Perdita  followed  Mrs.  Arthur  up  stairs  to  her  com- 
fortable little  room,  where  she  found  her  maid  already 
unpacking. 

"Do  we  dress  before  dinner,  or  after?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  as  you  like;  a  muslin  or  something  slight  for 
dinner  for  you  young  ladies,  for  fluffy  ball-gowns  get  so 
crushed.  I  shall  dress  before;"  and  the  good  little  woman 
trotted  away. 

When  the  gong  sounded,  Andrew  came  for  his  daughter, 
as  she  had  made  him  promise  to  do,  and  she  followed  him 
shyly  down  stairs.  , 

Most  of  the  guests  were  assembled,  and  Mrs.  Lee  Aston 
said,  that  as  dinner  was  at  an  irregular  time,  they  would 
wait  for  no  one,  but  that  they  had  better  go  in  without 
ceremony.  The  result  was  a  little  gentle  rush,  and 
Perdita  found  herself  taken  in  by  Jack  Lee  Aston.  There 
was  a  vacant  seat  on  the  other  sidp,  for  one  of  the  un- 
punctual  guests,  and  this  remained  empty  till  the  soup 
was  nearly  over,  when  Sir  Edward  Norton  came  in;  he 
looked  hastily  round  the  table — there  was  no  escape,  and 
he  sat  down  by  her,  and  unfolded  his  napkin. 

"Please  go  on,"  said  Dita  to  her  right-hand  neighbor, 
who  was  telling  her  the  names  of  all  the  party. 

"  How  far  did  I  get?  the  lady  in  pink  silk  you  know, 
my  sister-in-law." 


78  DITA. 

''Yes,  and  then  Mr.  Greville  with  the  bass  voice,  and 
then  Miss  Grethard — I  know  them,  of  course;  and  then?" 

"Those  two  men  are  Captain  Johnstone  and  Colonel 
Palmer;  then,  of  course,  my  mother,  Lord  Armine,  Major 
Steele,  a  brother  officer  of  Arthur's,  and  then  my  aunt, 
Miss  Ashburn." 

"  And  next  to  me?"  whispered  Dita. 

"Norton.,  I  think  you  are  not  acquainted  with  Miss 
Lovel?  Sir  Edward  Norton  —  Miss  Lovel,"  said  Jack, 
aloud;  Norton  bowed  very  stiffly,  and  turning  to  Miss 
Ashburn,  asked  her  if  she  had  been  out  driving. 

Miss  Ashburn  was  very  deaf  with  one  ear,  and  Jack 
felt  himself  revenged  when  she  produced  a  long  tube  from, 
her  pocket,  and  thrusting  one  end  into  her  ear  where  it 
stuck  of  itself,  she  presented  the  mouthpiece  to  her  neigh- 
bor. 

Jack  could  not  suppress  a  little  giggle,  and  Dita  pursed 
up  her  mouth  vigorously,  not  to  smile. 

Sir  Edward's  question  produced  a  long  disconnected 
answer,  and  then  he  set  himself  to  eating  and  between 
dishes  to  examining  the  menu  with  so  very  decided  an 
intention  not  to  speak,  that  Perdita  could  not  but  per- 
ceive it,  though  Jack  kept  her  employed  the  whole  time 
listening  to  him. 

Fortunately  for  Sir  Edward,  dinner  was  hurried  over, 
and  the  young  ladies  went  away  to  dress.  The  gentlemen 
amused  themselves  by  knocking  about  the  billiard -balls 
in  the  hall,  and  the  elder  ladies  warmed  themselves 
and  drank  coffee;  little  Mrs.  Arthur  stole  away  to  the 
nursery. 

At  nine  o'clock,  the  carriages  were  announced,  and  the 
young  ladies  reappeared,  their  beauty  hidden  by  cloaks 
and  shawls.  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  wrapped  up  Miss  Ashburn, 
first  in  a  Shetland  shawl,  then  io  an  Indian  chuddar, 
and  lastly  in  a  huge  fur  tippet,  and  they  started.  • 

Perdita's  feet  were  dancing  the  whole  way,  and  her  eyes 
sparkling;  no  excitement  in  her  hitherto  tranquil  life 
had  ever  equaled  this  going  to  her  first  ball. 


DITA.  79 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THAT  first  sound  of  music  on  the  staircase  which  an- 
nounces that  dancing  has  begun, — what  a  thrill  of  excite- 
ment it  produces  in  the  heart  of  the  young  debutante! 

Dita  followed  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  and  her  'flock  of  ladies 
into  the  ball-room.  She  felt  quite  bewildered  with  the 
brilliancy  of  the  scene,  and  was  only  aroused  by  Mr. 
Lovel  leading  her  forward  and  introducing  her  proudly 
to  their  hostess,  Lady  Waldon;  and  she  saw  the  face  of  a 
very  pleasant- looking  old  lady  smiling  kindly  at  her  and 
saying,  (<  I  hope  you  like  dancing,  my  dear;  all  young 
people  should  like  dancing." 

Then  she  was  hurried  off  by  Jack,  and  whirled  into 
the  valse. 

Perdita  excited  extreme  admiration;  her  kind  hostess 
was  literally  besieged  by  gentlemen,  all  asking  to  be  intro- 
duced to  her,  and  eager  for  the  privilege  of  dancing  with 
her. 

"Do  you  never  dance,  Sir  Edward?"  said  Mrs.  Arthur, 
in  her  cooing  voice. 

"  Very  seldom — I  cannot  see  the  pleasure  of  skipping 
about  for  nothing." 

"  Oh  dear!  but  then  young  people  must  be  amused." 

"  It  is  not  a  rational  amusement." 

"  Were  you  always  so  rational?  What  a  dreadful  boy 
you  must  have  been!"  said  Lady  Waldon,  coining  up  to 
them. 

Edward  was  forced  to  laugh,  and  the  laugh  dissipated 
a  little  of  his  cross  humor.  "  Come,"  she  went  on,  "I 
think  too  well  of  you  not  to  think  that  you  can  be  irra- 
tional sometimes.  Why,  the  Spartans  themselves  un- 
bent  " 

"  Only  when  the  period  of  decadence  commenced,"  an- 
swered Sir  Edward.  "But  I  am  no  Spartan,  perhaps 
more  of  a  philosopher " 

"  Then  you  must  be  driven  from  your  tub!  A  tub  at 
your  age,  goodness  me!  Let  me  secure  you  a  charming 
partner  to  exercise  your  fascinations  upon." 

"  No,  no,  Lady  Waldon:  conquests  are  for  Alexander" 


80  DITA. 

— and  he  pointed  to  Jack,  who  was  again  daucfng  with 
Dita — "and  philosophy  for  me " 

"Ah!  is  not  that  as  good  as  saying  that  were  you  not 
Diogenes  yon  would  be  Alexander?  It  must  need  all  your 
philosophy  to  resist  the  chance  of  dancing  with  anything 
so  lovely." 

"  I  have  scarcely  seen  Miss  Lovel."  said  he,  very  coldly. 

"Oh,  Diogenes,  still  in  thy  tub!"  and  she  laughed  and 
left  him,  determined  on  revenge. 

He  was  still  standing  where  she  had  left  him  when  La  1; 
Waldon  suddenly  came  up  to  him  and  said — 

"  Sir  Edward,  allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Miss  Lovel 
• — she  is  disengaged  for  this  dance." 

He  could  do  nothing  but  ask  her  to  dance,  which  he 
did  in  the  most  formal  manner.  To  his  astonishment  six- 
refused.  He  bowed,  and  stepped  back.  At  that  moment 
the  music  began,  and  Major  Steele  came  swiftly  through 
the  crowd,  with  his  head  in  the  air,  as  if  seeking  some  one, 
and  seeing  Miss  Lovel,  asked  her  to  dance,  and  she  went 
gayly  away  with  him. 

Edward  Norton  felt  exceedingly  mortified.  She  had 
refused  him,  and  accepted  the  commonplace  little  officer 
at  once.  It  was  the  Lancers,  and  Perdita  was  close  to 
him  in  the  dance.  Very  much  displeased,  he  watched 
her,  and  in  spite  of  himself  could  not  help  admitting  that 
she  was  pretty. 

Edward  Norton's  taste  was  very  fastidious,  and  it  was 
gratified  by  the  perfection  of  Dita's  whole  appearance. 
Her  dress,  made  by  the  very  best  French  dressmaker,  had 
that  degree  of  finish  about  it  which  is  so  rare  in  England; 
gloves,  shoes,  and  fan  all  of  one  tint.  Her  beautiful 
wavy  hair  was  braided  in  very  large  soft  plaits;  on  her 
brow  it  rippled  and  curled  naturally.  Her  complexion 
was  brilliantly  white,  with  a  wild -rose  tinge  on  the  cheeks 
and  lips;  but  the  most  remarkable  feature  was  that  won- 
derful pair  of  dark  eyes — like  the  eyes  of  a  gazelle — shaded 
by  dark  lashes,  and  full  of  varying  expression. 

Norton's  "  pretty,"  was  buc  hesitatingly  pronounced, 
for  he  was  truthful  even  to  himself,  and  it  seemed  to  him, 
in  spite  of  himself,  that  his  eyes  had  never  rested  on  any- 
thing more  lovely. 

When  the  dance  was  orer  he  went  across  to  where  Dita 
had  seated  herself,  and  said,  very  sternly — 


DITA.  81 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  valse,  Miss  Lovel?" 

"No,  thank  yon,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Are  you  already  engaged?" 

"No;  that  is,  not  yet." 

He  stood  gloomily  beside  her  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  "  So  I  am  the  only  person  with  whom  you  refuse  to 
dance." 

She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  but  said  nothing.  He 
repeated  his  words  in  the  shape  of  a  question.  "Ami 
the  only  person  with  whom  you  refuse  to  dance;  and  if 
so,  why?" 

"  Because  you  do  not  really  wish  to  dance  with  me," 
said  Dita,  with  spirit.  "I  saw  you  did  not,  and  only 
asked  me  because  you  could  not  help  it,  Indeed  I  do  not 
care  for  dancing  so  very  much  that  I  would  dance  with  you 
against  your  will,"  and  she  blushed  at  the  length  of  her 
explanation. 

"But  I  do  wish  you  to  dance  with  me,  very  much," 
said  Sir  Edward,  haughtily. 

"  Merely  the  spirit  of  contradiction, "answered  Dita,  as 
haughtily.  She  was  a  spoilt  child,  and  could  not  brook 
his  tone  of  superiority.  She  sat  while  that  delicious  valse 
went  on,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  floor.  No  one  asked  her 
to  dance,  for  seeing  Sir  Edward  by  her  side  they  imagined 
her  to  be  engaged  to  him,  but  he  did  not  move. 

"I  am  sorrtT  that  you  should  think  such  a  thing,"  he 
said,  slowly;  ,;y  face  must  be  one  very  easily  read." 

He  did  not  ^jrceive  that  he  had  betrayed  himself;  but 
she  did. 

"  Yes,  very  easily  read,"  she  said. 

He  did  not  like  it  at  all.  He  stood  by  her  without 
speaking,  looking  at  the  dancing,  and  she  became  more 
and  more  impatient. 

At  that  moment  Jack  Lee  Aston  came  back  from  tak- 
ing a  lady  down  to  supper,  and,  springing  toward  Dita,  he 
said — "  You  are  not  dancing,  and  this  is  such  a  perfect 
valse.  May  I  have  the  pleasure?"  and  they  plunged  into 
the  maze. 

"They  are  well  matched, "si'id  Edward  Norton  to  him- 
self; and  he  bit  his  lips  and  asked  Mrs.  Arthur  whether 
she  would  have  some  supper. 

"Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  that  it  is  over!"  cried   Dita,  as, 


82  DITA. 

inuffled  in  her  white  fur  cloak,  she  was  put  into  theo»nni- 
bus  by  her  last  partner. 

"  Good  night — good  night,"  and  they  started  on  their 
way  home. 

"  Have  you  enjoyed  it  much,  my  dear?"  said  Mrs.  Lee 
Aston,  kindly. 

"Oli!  more  than  I  can  possibly  say." 

"She  is  silly  and  frivolous,"  thought  Sir  Edward. 
"  What  a  fuss  to  make  about  a  ball!" 

All  the  elders,  excepting  Mrs.  Lee  Aston,  had  alreadv 
gone  on,  and  the  last  carriage  contained  nothing  but 
young  people,  and  their  hostess. 

"It  has  been  a  capital  dance,"  said  Meta;  "the  Wai- 
dons'  balls  are  always  good." 

"  I  don't  think  they  ever  gave  so  good  a  one  before," 
said  Jack;  "  bv  Jove!  it's  half-past  four,  and  awfully 
light." 

By  degrees  the  remarks  grew  fewer  and  fewer,  and  at 
last  ceased;  most  of  the  party  dozed,  and  there  arose  a  del- 
icate little  ladylike  snore  from  the  corner  in  which  Meta 
reposed. 

There  were  about  five  miles  to  drive,  and  when  they 
had  gone  about  three,  they  had  to  pass  a  railway  bridge, 
and  drive  alongside  of  the  line  for  about  ten  yards. 

Sir  Edward  was  at  the  end  of  the  omnibus,  very  far  from 
sleepy,  and  looking  backward,  he  saw  the  train  coming; 
there  were  the  two  brilliant  red  lights  of  the  night  express, 
and  as  it  drew  near  there  arose  a  shrill  whistle  from  the 
engine.  Jack  woke  up  instantly,  saying  in  a  low  voice — 

"  These  horses  won't  stand  that." 

Dita  sat  up  ar.d  looked  at  the  two  men;  the  pace  of  the 
carriage  was  increasing,  the  horses  first  cantering,  then 
galloping  hard. 

Mrs.  Lee  Aston  started  up  in  terror,  and  clutched  hold 
of  her  daughter  and  Miss  Grethard. 

"  Jack,  Jack,"  she  said,  "  why  are  we  going  so  fast?  tell 
Bolton  I  will  not  be  driven  at  this  pace.  Can't  you  tell 
him?" 

"*'Hush,  mother,"  said  Jack,  "don't  be  afraid;  the 
horses  have  been  frightened  by  the  train — they  will  stop 
in  a  moment." 

Meta  began  to  cry,  and  Miss  Grethard  and  Mrs.  Lee 
Aston  clasped  each  other;  only  Perdita  said  nothing,  but 


DITA.  '  83 

sat  quite  still.     The  pace  increased  more  and  more,  the 
omnibus  swaying  frightfully  from  side  to  side. 

Meta  gave  utterance  to  a  wild  scream.  Dita  leant  sud- 
denly forward  and  whispered  to  Sir  Edward — 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  to  open  the  windows?" 

"Yes,  yon  are  quite  right;  "and  he  proceeded  to  do  so 
in  spite  of  the  rush  of  cold  air  which  came  in. 

"  There  is  a  goodish  piece  of  straight  road  up  to  t?ie 
home  farm,"  said  Jack  between  his  teeth  to  Sir  Edward; 
"but  the  corner  is  bad,  if  he  cannot  pull  up  there." 

The  carriage  rushed  on  more  and  more  wildly.  Some- 
tiling  dark  seemed  to  flash  by  them. 

"That  fool  James  has  jumped  off!"  exclaimed  Jack. 
"He  must  be  killed,  at  this  pace."  He  leaned  across 
Miss  Grethard,  stretched  out  of  the  window,  and  shouted 
out — 

"Any  chance  of  pulling  up,  Bolton?"  There  was  no 
answer,  for  the  man's  whole  strength  was  required;  but  a 
side  view  of  the  horses  with  their  heads  well  down  and  the 
foam  flying  from  their  bits,  told  its  own  tale. 

Jack  drew  his  head  in,  and  looking  at  Sir  Ed  ward,  gave 
an  almost  imperceptible  shake  of  the  head.  Perdita  saw, 
and  her  face  grew  paler  still;  she  suddenly  bent  forward 
and  touched  Sir  Edward's  hands,  and  stooping  very  close 
to  him,  whispered — 

"Sir  Ed  ward." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  cross." 

His  answer  was  to  squeeze  her  little  fingers  very  tight — 
then  there  was  a  violent  rocking,  they  were  pitched  from 
one  side  to  another — a  terrific  crash,  and  she  knew  no 
more. 

Jack  Lee  Aston  was  the  first  to  emerge  from  the  wreck 
of  the  omnibus,  and  being  very  active  and  slight,  and 
moreover  having  had  the  good  luck  to  be  on  the  upper- 
most side,  he  was  able  to  scramble  sideways  out  of  the 
door.  With  the  help  of  the  coachman,  who  limped  very 
much,  but  had  escaped  without  serious  injury,  he  succeeded 
in  freeing  the  horses,  who  remained  quiet,  trembling  vio- 
lently. Then  they  proceeded  to  extricate  the  ladies  one 
after  the  other.  Dita  was  taken  out  quite  insensible  and 
laid  on  the  grass,  then  Miss  Grethard  and  Meta — the  latter 
screaming  frightfully. 


84  .  DITA. 

Mrs.  Lee  Aston  was  so  unnerved  that  she  entreated  to 
be  allowed  to  die  quietly.  Edward  Norton  had  scrambled 
and  dragged  himself  out,  and  when  in  the  open  air,  to 
every  one's  astonishment,  fainted  away.  Mela's  screams 
gradually  subsided,  and  she  sat  sobbing  at  the  side  of  the 
road . 

Mrs.  Lee  Aston  once  on  her  feet  was  quite  herself 
again,  and  she  and  Mabel  Grethard,  who  waa  much 
shaken  and  very  pale,  set  to  work  to  try  and  restore  the 
two  who  appeared  to  be  most  severely  hurt. 

The  coachman  mounted  one  of  the  horses,  and  leading 
the  other,  rode  off  for  assistance. 

In  about  five  minutes  Perdita  opened  her  eyes;  it  was 
a  strange  scene — the  sky  was  just  beginning  to  glow  with 
the  first  gleams  of  sunrise,  and  the  grass  and  road  were 
all  brilliant  with  hoar-frost.  They  were  not  really  far 
from  home;  but  the  park  wall  divided  them  from  the 
park,  and  there  would  be  nearly  a  mile  to  skirt  it  before 
they  could  arrive  at  the  lodge.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
farm  were  unfortunately  only  women — the  farmer  had 
gone  for  the  night  to  some  distant  market-town,  and  the 
laborers  had  all  gone  home  to  their  cottages. 

Perdita  found  Mabel  Grethard  and  Jack  both  bending 
anxiously  over  her,  and  she  tried  to  smile  and  attempt 
to  sit  up,  but  she  could  not  help  giving  a  cry  of  pain,  and 
fell  back  again. 

"  Where  are  you  hurt,  dear?  can  you  tell  me?"  asked 
Mabel. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  leg  is  broken,  it  feels  very  odd,"  said 
Dita. 

"  Oh  dear!  dear!  what  a  time  they  are  in  coming!" 
sobbed  Meta. 

Mrs.  Lee  Aston  was  kneeling  by  Edward  Norton,  put- 
ting eau-de-Cologne  to  his  brow,  and  chafing  his  hands; 
but  there  wis  not  the  slightest  sign  of  returning  con- 
sciousness. 

It  seemed  ages  before  the  carriage  arrived  with  Mr.  Lee 
Aston,  Arthur,  and  poor  Andrew,  all  in  the  keenest  anx- 
iety. Perdita  was  lifted  in,  and  the  ladies  followed  her. 

Arthur  and  Jack  together  appropriated  the  largest 
blankets  in  the  farm,  and  extemporized  a  sort  of  litter, 
on  which  they  placed  the  inanimate  form  of  Sir  Edward 
Norton.  Several  men  had  arrived  by  this  time  from  the 


DITA.  85 

house  and  the  stables,  and  they  started  home  with  (heir 
burden  as  fast  as  they  could  go.  Before  they  set  out,  the 
footman,  who  had  jumped  off,  made  his  appearance  in  a 
most  deplorable  condition;  his  life  bad  been  saved  only 
by  a  miracle:  lie  had  thrown  himself  on  the  top  of  a 
hedge,  which  had  broken  the  fall:  his  face  and  hands 
were  torn  and  scratched,  his  clothes  almost  in  rags,  and 
covered  with  blood;  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  serious 
injury. 

Another  messenger  was  sent  off  for  the  doctor,  who  ar- 
rived very  quickly,  but  not  before  the  principal  sufferers 
had  been  taken  up  into  their  rooms, 

He  pronounced  Perdita's  leg  to  be  broken — a  simple 
fracture,  of  no  very  great  consequence.  She  went  through 
the  setting  with  heroism,  holding  Mr.  Lee  Aston's  hand 
the  while.  Over  Edward  Xorton  he  would  not  pronounce 
at  once.  The  arm  was  very  badly  broken  and  wrenched; 
he  had  had  one  elbow  out  of  the  window  when  the  car- 
riage upset,  and  the  injury  was  a  very  bad  one.  But  the 
long  insensibility  might  mean  internal  injury;  he  could 
not  say  at  once.  He  prepared  to  stay  with  him  until  his 
return  to  consciousness;  but  before  anything  else,  made 
Jack  swallow  brandy-and-water  freely. 


CHAPTER  XVI I. 

BROKEN  legs  and  arms  take  a  long  time  to  get  well,  es- 
pecially when  accompanied  by  such  a  shaking  as  the  two 
invalids  had  undergone.  It  was  quite  three  weeks  before 
they  were  allowed  to  come  down  stairs,  and  even  then 
they  were  both  kept  upon  sofas,  and  forbidden  to  move 
more  than  was  absolutely  necessary. 

The  autumn  had  changed  info  winter— cold,  bright, 
and  frosty — and  they  pined  to  be  allowed  to  go  out,  and 
grew  tired  of  always  reading. 

In  the  beginning  of  her  illness,  Mrs.  Lovel  was  able  to 
come  for  a  short  time  to  see  Perdita;  but  after  staying  a 
few  days,  she  felt  obliged  to  return  home,  fora  recurrence 
of  the  palpitation  of  the  heart,  to  which  she  was  so  sub- 
ject, made  her  nervous  lest  she  also  should  be  laid  up 
there.  There  was  a  change  coming  over  Andrew  now;  he 
looked  far  older,  and  lost  much  of  the  self-confidence  for 


86  DITA. 

which  he  used  to  be  so  conspicuous.  The  truth  wa?, 
that  his  eyes  were  at  last  opening  to  the  fact  that  Nannie 
was  ill,  very  ill;  that  the  doctors  looked  grave  after  seeing 
her,  and  gave  him  their  opinion  in  unmeaning  phrases. 

In  the  absence  of  Perdita  they  were  thrown  more  to- 
gether than  they  had  been  for  many  years.  One  day 
Andrew  even  called  his  wife  Nannie  again,  and  the  color 
flushed  into  her  face,  and  the  tears  into  her  eyes,  with 
joy.  He  came  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  and 
she  leant  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  know  it  now,  honey,  do  you  not?"  she  said, 
softly. 

"Know  what?" 

"  That  I  never  can  be  well." 

"That  is  nonsense,  my  dear,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "  We 
will  go  to  some  German  baths  in  the  early  summer;  they 
will  make  you  as  strong  as  ever." 

"Maybe,"  said  Nannie,  sighing — it  seemed  to  her 
dreadful  to  go  away  from  home  on  a  long  journey — 
"  maybe;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  would  rather  die  here 
quietly  than  away  in  foreign  places." 

"You  are  weak,  nnd  it  makes  you  low,"  he  said, 
eagerly — "what  Dr.  Grant  calls  unconquerable  nervous 
depression;  nothing  like  Gorman  waters  for  that.  We'll 
have  you  as  strong  as  ever,  sweetheart." 

"Andrew,  do  you  mind  the  little  back-yard,  where 
Dita  used  to  play?" 

"  Ay." 

"And  the  swing  you  made  of  my  mother's  old  rocking- 
chair,  and  the  child's  beautiful  hair  that  you  loved  so, 
and  I  would  so  lief  have  cut  off?  I  am  glad  I  let  it  grow." 

Andrew  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand:  why  would  she 
talk  of  all  these  things  now? 

"And  your  play,  Andrew,  will  it  ever  be  finished?  I 
fear  me,  never,  though  it  was  grand  enough  then,  when 
we  were  but  humble.  You  never  read  Shakespeare  now, 
Andrew?" 

"I  have  no  time  now,"  said  he,  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"No,"  she  said,   thoughtfully,    "no    time.      Riches 
bring  troubles  and  cares  and  weariness  more  than  joys." 
"Not  to  me,"  lie  said. 
"You  do  not  know  it  yet,"  she  laid,  softly;  "not  yet 


DITA.    '  87 

But  we  were  happier  then;  I  was  a  better  wife  then  than 
I  have  been  since." 

"Oh,  Nannie,  Nannie!" 

"It  is  a  long  time  ago,"  she  went  on.  "I  remember, 
years  ago,  that  my  father  went  over  to  Alderney  and 
brought  me  home  for  a  dairy  pet  a  young  heifer  from 
there.  Oh,  she  was  a  pretty  creature  was  Daisy!  her  coat 
was  like  satin,  and  her  eyes  for  all  the  world  like  our 
Dita's;  but  she  did  not  live.  The  food  was  very  rich,  she 
was  kept  like  a  princess,  and  housed  against  storm  and 
rain;  but  she  grew  thinner  and  thinner,  and  pined  away. 
She  missed  the  old  scenes  she  loved;  the  friends  of  her 
youth;  the  poor  shed  in  which  she  had  lived.  Some  could 
bear  it,  but  she  could  not,  nor  could  I." 

"Nannie,  wife,  you  do  not  think  of  me.  What  should 
I  do,  were  you  to  go?" 

"  You  will  have  Dita,  honey,  and  she  is  a  more  fit  com- 
panion for  you  than  poor  humble  Nannie." 

"  Ah!  she  is  not  of  us — she  too  will  fly  away.  Nannie, 
wait  a  little  time  for  me;  let  us  go  together." 

She  stroked  his  cheek  gently  with  her  hand,  deling  the 
hot  tears  running  down.  "All  in  God's  good  time, 
honey,"  she  said,  softly. 

It  was  a  brilliant  October  day,  keen,  fresh,  and  invig- 
orating, and  all  the  Lee  Aston  party  were  out  excepting 
the  two  invalids. 

It  seemed  to  Sir  Edward  a  wayward  fate  that  he  should 
thus  be  forced  into  daily  companionship  with  the  very 
young  lady  he  had  been  most  auxious'to  avoid,  but  it  was 
inevitable. 

On  the -first  day  of  Perdita's  reappearance  down  stairs, 
Jack  had  tried  his  chance  with  her,  and  failed.  The 
events  of  that  unfortunate  night  had  increased  his  admira- 
tion for  Miss  Lovel  to  genuine  lore,  and  he  took  away  with 
him  on  a  fishing  expedition  in  Norway  a  sharper  pain  in 
his  honest  heart  than  his  friend  at  all  suspected. 

Meanwhile  the  boasted  philosophy  of  Edward  Norton 
was  in  danger;  he  could  not  help  passing  hours  in  the 
day  with  Perdita;  he  had  tried  being  wheeled  into  the 
billiard-room,  but  a  great  deal  of  shooting  was  going  on, 
and  the  men  were  constantly  out,  and  as  he  did  not  at  all 
relish  solitude,  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
be  and  Perdita  were  placed  on  opposite  sides  of  a  window, 


88  EITA. 

and  enjoyed  many  a  heaity  laugh  over  the  absurdity  ot 
the  position,  especially  when  a  visitor  was  announced 
whonn  neither  could  rise  to  receive — for  Norton  was  even 
less  able  to  move  than  Dita,  the  doctors  pronouncing  that 
to  keep  his  shoulder  motionless  was  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance. 

On  one  occasion,  all  the  party  being  out,  each  took  up 
a  book,  and  for  a  time  only  the  ticking  of  the  clock  broke 
the  silence.  At  last  Sir  Edward,  who  had  furtively  been 
watching  Dita  for  some  minutes,  began — 

"  Miss  Level." 

"Yes." 

"Is  your  hook  amusing?" 

"No;"  and  she  stifled  a  yawn. 

"  Then  do  put  it  down  and  talk,  I  am  so  bored," 

"  So  am  I,  but  I  was  too  polite  to  say  so." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Lovel — what  are  you  read- 
ing?" 

"  'The  Widow's  Bequest." 

"Trash,  is  it  not?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is;  but  I  have  read  so  few  novels  that, 
generally  speaking,  even  trash  amuses  me." 

"  It  must  be  very  nice  to  be  so  easily  amused,"  said  Sir 
Edward,  languidly. 

"I  have  a  piece  of  gossip  in  my  pocket,"  said  Dita, 
eagerly,  "that  I  am  sure  will  interest  you.  Mrs.  Lee 
Aston  had  a  letter  from  Lady  Armine." 

"  A  marriage?" 

"  Quite  right;  Mabel  Grethard  is  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

"  Who  is  the  happy  man?  Lucky  for  him  that  he  did 
not  hear  the  eldritch  yell  that  she  uttered  in  the  carriage." 

"No,  no,  no!"  cried  Dita,  laughing,  "that  was  Meta; 
and  I  do  not  at  all  wonder  at  her  being  frightened." 

"  Yes,  I  apologize;  of  course  it  was.  Miss  Grethard 
was  very  quiet  and  useful  also." 

"  And  Meta's  shriek  was  very  pardonable." 

"  But  it  was  on  terrdfirmd  she  shrieked — Jack  told  me 
so,"  he  continued. 

"Nonsense!" 

"  You  were  insensible,  Miss  Lovel,  so  you  cannot 
know." 

"So  were  you  insensible,"  she  said,  gayly. 


DITA.  *  89 

"  WeH,  Jack  had  all  his  wits  about  him,  and  he  thought 
she  had  fainted;  and  when  he  went  to  lift  her  up,  she 
uttered  so  sudden  a  scream  that  he  fell  backward.  But 
to  return  to  your  news,  who  is  the  lucky  man?" 

"  His  name  is  Macmonach — Angus  Macrnonach — and 
he  is  a  very  rich  Scotch  laird,  with  a  fine  old  castle  called 
Dnnmonaigh,  in  a  most  beautiful  part  of  the  country." 

"Highly  satisfactory:  any  drawbacks?" 

"  He  is  not  as  young  as  she  might  have  wished,  Lady 
Armine  says,"  said  Dita.  "  I  think  him  a  very  good  age; 
I  don't  like  very  young  people — he  is  forty- five." 

"And  she?" 

"  Eighteen;  it  is  certainly  a  great  difference." 

"  He  has  beeii  a  long  time  making  up  his  mind,"  said 
Sir  Edward. 

"  You  are  determined  not  to  take  my  piece  of  news 
nicely,"  said  Dita,  laughing;  "but  it  is  deeply  interest- 
ing to  me.  Though  I  have  seen  so  little  of  her,  Mabel  is 
the  only  girl-friend  I  have — she  is  so  good  and  merry  and 
charming,  and  she  is  very  pretty." 

"  Keally,  do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  I  admire  her  lovely  brown  hair,  and  her  eyes; 
and  she  was  vory  kind  to  me,"  said  Dita,  eagerly. 

"Is  anybody  ever  unkind  to  you?"  said  Sir  Edward, 
impulsively. 

"  Oh  yes.  you  were." 

"  1!     What  can  you  mean?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Perdita,  blushing  rosy  red  with  con- 
fusion; "I  did  not  mean  to  say  it." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  he;  then  he  suddenly 
bit  his  lips  and  stopped. 

"  You  must  have  taken  a  great  dislike  to  poor  little 
me,"  said  Dita,  with  a  very  little  touch  of  pathos  in  her 
voice. 

"  Dislike!     Miss  Lovel,  would  to  heaven  that " 

Again  he  stopped  himself.   Perdita  went  on  hurriedly — 

"  You  once  did  a  very  kind  thing  for  me,  for  which  I 
feel  grateful  now." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  he  answered,  recovering  himself. 
"What  was  it?" 

"  You  saved  my  little  dog  from  a  watery  grave." 

"  Oh,  I  had  quite  forgotten,  it;  it  was  one  of  those  little 


90 

beasts  made  of  wadding,  was  it  not?  I  remember  how  it 
kicked." 

"  I  think  it  would  have  broken  my  heart  to  have  lost 
Fluff  then,"  said  Dita.  "It  was  bad  enough  when  I  was 
older." 

"When  did  it  die?" 

"  About  six  years  ago,  when  I  was  twelve  years  old." 

"  Old  enough  to  be  more  stoical." 

"  I  was  very  far  fr6m  being  stoical;  I  cried  more  in  two 
days  than  I  ever  cried  in  my  whole  life,  before  or  since." 

"Is  it  stuffed?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  Jaques  had  it  stuffed,  and  it  is  in  my  bed- 
room at  home." 

'•'  Happy  Fluff  to  be  so  mourned.  What  a  very  pretty 
little  girl  you  were  at  the  time  of  Fluff's  adventure!" 

"\'es,  I  must  have  been  quite  a  little  darling!  I  have 
seen  my  picture,  with  such  a  cloud  of  hair." 

•'  You  were  not  nearly  so  nice  afterward.  I  remember 
you  asking  me  what  was  the  principal  river  in  Japan,  and 
being  quite  scandalized  when  I  did  not  know;  and  then 
your  hair  was  done  up,  and  you  never  would  climb,  or 
fish,  or  paddle,  and  had  that  straight-backed  Miss  Grimes 
always  with  you." 

'•'Poor  Miss  Grimes,  who  always  prided  herself  on  her 
ladylike  deportment;  I  fear  I  gave  her  a  great  deal  of 
trouble." 

"  By- the- bye,  what  has  become  of  your  faithful  follower, 
the  big  man  with  the  red  hair?" 

"  Jaques?  Oh,  he  is  all  right;  he  lives  with  his  mother 
and  looks  after  the  books.  He  plays  the  violin  divinely: 
have  you  ever  heard  him?" 

"  No,  never.     Is  he  as  great  a  curiosity  as  ever?" 

"  Oh,  no,  he  only  looks  a  very  quiet  and  rather  bent 
student;  and  as  he  has  grown  such  a  large  red  beard,  you 
would  hardly  know  him." 

"  And  are  you  still  as  fond  of  him  as  you  used  to  be?" 

"I  should  think  so!  I  love  him,  dear  old  Jaques.  He 
taught  me  far  more  than  Miss  Grimes  did,  and  he  is  my 
mother's  most  devoted  friend!" 

"  I  hope  she  is  better  now?"  asked  Sir  Edward. 

"  She  is  always  much  about  the  same,"  answered  Dita, 
sadly.  "  Poor  dear  mother!" 

"  My  mother  is  very  fond  of  her,"  said  he, 


!    A..  91 

"Yes,  she  is  the  greatest  comfort  to  poor  mammie;  1 
do  not  know  what  she  would  do  without  her  daily  v 
and  it  is  so  very  kind  of  her  not  to  mind  coming  to  Sal- 
ford  Abbey." 

They  were  on  dangerous  ground,  and  Dita  caught 
herself  up  quickly.  She  feared  that  she  must  have 
hurt  his  feelings,  for  he  said  nothing  for  some  minutes, 
then — 

"I  suppose  you  will  go  to  London  this  spring?" 

"  No,  we  are  going  to  Badfeld  for  the  baths.  Dr.  Grant 
thinks  that  they  will  do  my  mother  good." 

"  What  a  nuisance! — I  mean  for  you." 

"  Oh,  no;  I  shall  enjoy  the  fun  of  it:  it  w.ill  be  quite 
new  to  me." 

They  went  on  talking  till  the  walking-party  came  in 
and  tea  was  ordered.  Every  one  was  full  of  Mabel  Gret- 
hard's  marriage.  Arthur  had  once  met  Angus  Macmo- 
nach  when  shooting  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  and  had 
been  invited  to  pass  a  night  at  Dunmonaigh.  He  said 
that  Lady  Armine's  admiration  was  by  no  means  exag- 
gerated; and  described  the  position  of  the  grand  old  house, 
with  the  heather-chid  hills  protecting  it  from  behind,  and 
the  deep,  clear  loch  in  front. 

"Miss  Grethard  will  be  a  strangely  modern  element  in 
that  romantic  old  place,"  he  said,  "  with  her  Paris  boots 
and  gloves.  I  am  glad  Macmonach  is  to  be  married;  it 
would  have  been  sad  for  that  good  old  family  to  have  died 
out." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  is  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Arthur. 

"  He  is  a  very  queer,  quiet  fellow.  It  is  a  curious  case 
of  defeated  ambition.  The  man  is  exceedingly  clever, 
but  he  is  manque." 

"How  sad!''  said  Mrs.  Lee  Aston,  sealing  a  letter. 

"  In  what  way  do  you  mean?"  asked  Perdita. 

"It  is  difficult  to  say  why.  He  tried  elaborate  farming, 
and  was  defeated  by  the  impossibility  of  cultivation  in 
that  grand  mountain  country,  that  ran  away  with  money, 
destroyed  the  peat  that  is  absolutely  essential  for  fuel, 
and  frightened  the  game.  Then  he  tried  Parliament — he 
made  some  able  speeches  in  his  first  session.  He  was  a 
Conservative,  of  course;  and  at  the  last  election  a  loud- 
talking  Radical  went  down  to  Dunmonaigh,  and  defeated 
him  on  his  own  ground — an  unheard-of  catastrophe;  bu> 


93  DITA. 

they  say  the  family  influence  has  gone  rapidly  down  of 
late — they  used  to  carry  all  before  them." 

"  Is  he  unpopular?" 

"Undoubtedly.  He  is  a  very  odd  man,  with  a  sort  of 
irritability  about  him.  He  calls  his  people  by  the  wrong 
names,  and  knows  nothing  about  them  or  their  families." 

"That  never  answers  in  Scotland,"  said  Meta. 

"  No,  indeed,  it  tries  the  stanchest  loyalty.  His  mother 
is  a  magnificent  specimen  of  the  feudal  chatelaine" 

"  Let  me  see — who  was  she?"  said  Mrs.  Arthur. 

"  A  Fitz-James;  they  have  royal  blood  in  their  veins. 
She  must  have  been  very  handsome,  and  is  now  one  of  the 
grandest-looking  old  ladies  I  ever  saw,  but  so  dignified 
that  Mabel's  life  will  be  a  burden  to  her  at  first." 

"  Is  this  Angus  the  only  son?"  asked  Sir  Edward. 

"  Yes;  there  was  another,  but  he  died — was  killed 
hunting  or  something,  not  long  after  his  father's  death." 
•  "Poor  Lady  Griselda,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  Aston,  kindly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  next  morning  was  so  fine  that  every  one  went  out 
except  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  and  the  invalids;  the  former  had 
letters  to  write  and  retired  to  her  sitting-room,  after  see- 
ing that  her  guests  were  well  supplied  with  books.  Edward 
Norton,  who  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  was  disposed  to 
be  melancholy.  Perdita,  on  the  contrary,  was  in  brilliant 
spirits. 

"I  am  to  get  upon  crutches  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
gayly;  "and  once  upon  the  crutches,  I  may  as  well  pack 
up  my  goods  and  chattels,  and  relieve  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  of 
my  most  troublesome  presence." 

*"  I  wish  I  could  be  tinkered  up  as  easily  as  you,"  said 
Sir  Edward,  movkig  uneasily. 

"But  your  shoulder  is  going  on  all  right,  is  it  not?" 
said  Dita,  anxiously. 

"I  hope  so — oh!"  he  became  suddenly  very  pale. 

"What  is  it?    Can  I  help  you?" 

"If  I  come  to  you,  do  you  Miink  that  you  could  move 
my  bandage?  it  is  displaced  there  to  the  right.  Oh,  thank 
you;  by  Jove!  it  did  hurt.  As  he  knelt  beside  her,  she 
gently  put  the  bandages  right. 


DITA.  92 

"  Go  and  lie  down,"  she  said,  "  and  keep  perfectly 
quiet:  you  do  not  look  well  to-day." 

"  Don't  1?  Well,  I  never  closed  my  eyes  all  night  with 
the  pain.  I  think  Griffiths  lias  tied  me  up  too  tight,  or 
something;  it  seems  to  get  worse  every  day."  And  he  lay 
back  on  his  sofa,  looking  pule  and  exhausted. 

Presently  he  began  again,  "  Do  you  think  me  a  great 
muff,  Miss  Lovel?  I  am  a  very  bad  hand  at  bearing  pain." 

"  I  know  that  some  people  are  much  more  sensitive 
than  others,  and  in  consequence  actually  suffer  more." 

"  That  is  quite  true.  There  was  a  poor  fellow  whom  I 
knew  once  who  actually  died  of  pain." 

"  What  a  terrible  thing!" 

"  I  think  very  serious  pain  would  soon  put  an  end  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"  No,  that  could  only  happen  in  rare  cases.  I  think 
people  must  get  used  to  suffering  after  a  time." 

"  I  think  people  ought  to  be  allowed  to  put  their  friends 
out  of  pain  quietly,  when  it  is  beyond  endurance." 

"It  would  be  a  very  tempting  power,"  said  Dita,  half 
laughing.  "  Supposing  I  had  put  you  out  of  your  pain 
quietly  just  now,  what  would  your  feelings  have  been?" 

"  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  as  well,"  said  Sir  Edward, 
gloomily. 

"  More  comfortable  for  you  than  for  me.  But  seri- 
ously," she  said,  "I  always  think  that  the  natural  cling- 
ing to  life  which  we  all  have,  in  spite  of  pain,  trouble,  and 
sickness,  is  a  special  gift  from  God." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  he.  "I  had  always  looked 
upon  it  as  an  additional  trouble,  adding  to  the  horrors 
of  death." 

"  That  is  not  my  view,"  said  Dita,  gravely.  "  Our 
business  is  to  live,  and  to  live  properly,  and  to  do  a  certain 
amount  of  duty  and  service  during  our  life.  If  the 
service  were  very,  very  hard,  and  we  were  weary  and  in 
pain,  our  longing  for  death  would  be  overpowering,  and 
would  perhaps  unfit  us  to  bear  the  burden,  were  it  not 
for  that  instinctive  love  of  life  with  which  we  are  en- 
dowed." 

"  Is  it  love  of  life,  or  is  it  fear  of  the  physical  terrors 
of  dying — the  shrinking  of  th§  human  soul  from  the 
borders  of  the  Unknown  Land?" 

"I  think,"  said    Perdita,    "that  they  are  all  part  of 


94  DITA. 

the  instinct  I  speak  of.  The  holiest  man  I  ever  knew," 
ehe  continued  reverently,  bending  her  head,  "was  the 
bishop  who  confirmed  me.  I  only  saw  him  once  or  twice, 
but  no  one  could  be  with  him  without  carrying  away  some 
good,  some  wish  to  be  better.  And  he,  this  great  man, 
who  lived  like  a  saint,  had  a  great  dread  of  death,  surely 
sent  to  prevent  him  from  yearning  to  leave  the  world  in 
which  his  life  was  so  valuable." 

"  And  is  he  dead?"  asked  Edward,  deeply  interested. 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead.  He  was  spared  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  dying:  he  slept  on  earth  and  awoke  in  heaven." 

Edward  sighed.  "I  believe  you  are  right,"  he  said; 
"and  to  take  a  more  practical  view,  it  would  be  a  selfish 
tiling  to  wish  to  die  merely  for  your  own  comfort — that  is, 
should  you  leave  friends  to  regret  you." 

"How  does  your  arm  feel  now?"  asked  Dita,  changing 
the  subject. 

"It  hurts  me  so  much,"  he  answered,  "that  I  think 
the  sooner  I  can  run  up  to  London  and  have  it  looked 
after  the  better.  But  do  not  disturb  yourself,  Miss 
Lovel;  it  is  much  more  comfortable  than  it  was." 

"  I  hope  it  has  been  properly  set,"  said  Dita,  anxiously. 

"  I  do  not  feel  sure:  when  I  tell  Griffiths  of  the  con- 
tinuous pain  he  looks  surprised,  and  that  is  suspicions; 
but  I  have  got  it  into  an  easy  attitude  just  now." 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  and  Perdita  took  up  her  book. 

"Oh,  you  are  not  going  to  read?  That  is  too  bad!" 
he  cried. 

"  We  talk  so  much,"  said  Dita,  "that  I  consider  that  I 
ought  to  read  a  little  sometimes." 

"Not  just  now,"  said  he,  imploringly.  "You  can 
read  when  the  people  come  in." 

Dita  laughed.  "I  am  expecting  a  visitor  this  morn- 
ing." she  said. 

"  Who?" 

"  Jaques." 

"Is  his  real  name  Jaques?"  asked  Sir  Edward.  "And 
I  have  often  wondered  how  you  came  by  your  wonderful 
name!  'Were  you  christened  by  it?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  the  color  mounting  into  her 
cheeks.  "My  real  name  is  Margaret — Margaret  Griselda; 
but  my  father  had  a  great  passion  for  Shakespeare  then, 
so  I  was  named  after  that  flower-loving  heroine." 


DITA.  95 

"  And  the  melancholy  Jaques?" 

"  The  same,  his  real  name  is  James." 

"  He  is  a  very  queer  kind  of  fellow  to  be  so  much  at 
home  with  all  of  you,"  said  Sir  Edward,  curiously. 

Dita  laughed.  "He  was  my  earliest  and  dearest  play- 
fellow," she  said.  "  And  though  you  may  think  him 
ugly,  I  think  his  rough  face  quite  beautiful.  You  should 
see  him  when  he  is  playing  the  violin,  or  poring  over  some 
new  and  very  old  book — it  is  a  great  triumph  of  expres- 
sion and  feature." 

"  Must  I  go  away  when  your  melancholy  Jaques  comes?" 

"Oh  no,  why  should  you?  If  he  had  his  violin  I 
would  make  him  play  it,  but  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  chance 
of  that." 

"  Who  knows?  If  he  is  such  an  enthusiast  perhaps  he 
will  have  it  fastened  on  his  back  as  a  troubadour  has  his 
guitar,  or  borne  behind  him  by  a  beautiful  page.  Talk 
of  the " 

"Hush,"  said  Dita,  for  the  servant  announced  "Mr. 
Danby,"  and  Jaques  walked  in. 

It  was  still  a  matter  of  difficulty  for  Jaqnes  to  get  across 
the  room,  especially  when  he  saw  that  Perdita  was  not 
alone;  and  she  was  relieved  when  she  saw  him  safely  seated, 
facing  her,  between  the  two  sofas. 

"  You  have  not  brought  your  violin,  I  suppose,  Jaques?" 
said  Dita,  eagerly. 

"  No — yes;  I  could  fetch  it  if  you  wish  it,  Miss  Lovel." 

"  Go  back  five  miles!  certainly  not.  I  would  not  dream 
of  it." 

"In  the  afternoon,"  he  muttered. 

"  Not  this  afternoon,  but  one  day  if  you  would.  I  want 
Sir  Edward  Norton  to  hear  you  play  so  much." 

Jaques  raised  his  eyes,  and  viewed  the  other  invalid 
with  a  rather  strange  look. 

"  He  is  taking  my  measure,"  thought  Sir  Edward, 
"  and  uncommonly  close  too."  And  he  said  aloud,  "  Miss 
Lovel  has  told  me  so  much  of  the  extreme  beauty  of  your 
playing,  tluit  I  am  most  anxious  to  hear  you." 

Jaques  bowed,  and  the  color  flushed  into  his  face,  as  it 
always  did  when  Perdita  praised  him. 

"  Are  you  coming  home  soon,  Miss  Dita?"  he  said  pres- 
ently, "you  are  so  much  wanted  at  home." 

"Is  my  mother  not  so  well?"  cried  Dita,  anxiously. 


96  DITA. 

"Oh  no.  your  mother  is  just  the  same — neither  better 
nor  worse,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh;  "  but  Mr.  Lovel  is  quite 
lost  without  you,  and  he  won't  give  Adams  any  orders 
while  you  are  away." 

"  Miss  Lovel  cannot  possibly  move  before  the  doctors 
give  their  permission,"  said  Sir  Edward,  hastily. 

"  Oh  no,  no,  of  course  not.  How  are  you  getting  on, 
Miss  Dita?  I  had  hoped  that  you  were  nearly  well." 

"  So  I  am,  and  I  hope  to  come  home  in  two  or  three 
days  at  the  latest,  Jaques,"  she  said.  "I  know  that  poor 
mammie  must  want  me,  and  I  do  so  long  to  see  her  again. 
Are  you  going  to  stay  at  home  just  now?" 

"No,  I  am  off  to-morrow  again  to  Paris;  there  is  a 
great  sale  to  take  place  there,  and  I  have  heard  of  one  or 
two  valuable  books  that  I  should  like  to  see." 

"It  is  dreadful  to  a  scholar  to  lose  a  book  on  which  he 
lias  set  his  heart,"  said  Sir  Edward,  addressing  himself  to 
Perdita.  "  My  friend  Blackmore  was  telling  me  the  other 
day  of  his  having  once  just  missed  the  chance  of  De  Bry's 
English  Virginians — which  is  extraordinarily  rare — by  the 
merest  fluke." 

"What  did  you  say  the  name  was,  sir?"  said  Jaques, 
bending  forward. 

"Blackmore — Mr.  John  Blackmore."  He  stopped  sur- 
prised, for  Jaques  uttered  a  loud  explosive  chuckle,  and 
then  immediately  resumed  his  former  gravity. 

"  How  was  it?"  asked  Perdita,  a  little  ashamed  of  the 
behavior  of  her  friend. 

"  He  was  bargaining  for  the  book  at  one  of  those  book- 
seller's shops,  and  the  first  day  he  had  to  do  with  the 
master,  who  seemed  a  pliable  sort  of  man  enough,  so  he 
offered  him  a  low  price,  but  he  would  not  swallow  that; 
so  he  went  away,  and  returning  the  next  day,  he  found 
only  the  shopman,  an  awkward  kind  of  lad,  but  who  knew 
twice  as  much  about  the  value  of  the  books  as  did  his 
master.  And  this  creature — this  Caliban,  as  he  called 
him — kept  him  dangling  day  after  dr\y,  and  on  the  very 
day  on  which  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  pay  the  whole 
price  demanded,  he  coolly  informed  him  that  the  shop 
was  closed,  and  that  they  were  going  to  retire  from  busi- 
ness." 

Another  loud  chuckle  from  Jaques,  but  he  said  noth- 
ing 


DITA.  97 

"  It  seems  to  please  you  that  poor  Mr.  Blackmore 
should  have  been  disappointed,  Mr.  Danby,"  said  Sir 
Edward,  coldly. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all;  no,  no,  sir,"  faltered  Jaques. 

"When  Blackmore  told  me  about  it,"  went  on  Sir 
Edward,  turning  toDita,  and  smiling,  "the  tears  were  in 
his  eyes.  He  said  that  he  had  never  got  over  the  bitter- 
ness of  that  disappointment,  though  it  happened  many 
years  ago;  and  he  finished  the  story  with  a  not  very  polite 
interjection  in  respect  to  his  enemy." 

"  Poor  man,"  said  Dita  laughing  merrily.  Encouraged 
by  her  example,  Jaques  gave  way  to  an  irrepressible  fit  of 
laughter.  He  struggled,  he  choked,  he  tried  to  stifle  it  in 
a  huge  pocket-handkerchief;  it  became  nervous,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  get  up,  and,  hastily  saying  good-by,  leave 
the  room. 

"What  an  extraordinary  creature!"  said  Sir  Ed  ward: 
"  what  could  he  find  in  my  story  to  put  him  into  such  an 
agonizing  condition?" 

"  I  fancy  that  he  must  have  known  something  about  it 
all  before,"  said  Perdita;  "but  Jaques  is  always  upset  by 
fa  joke,  and  is  one  of  those  unlucky  people  who  cannot 
control  laughter  if  it  gets  beyond  a  certain  point." 

"I  confess  that  I  did  not  perceive  the  joke.  I  never 
saw  such  a  person." 

"Aii,  you  do  not  know  how  good  he  is!"  cried  Dita. 
"He  is  a  rough  diamond  indeed." 

"Unfortunately,"  said  Sir  Edward,  coldly,  "one  of 
the  innate  faults  of  my  character  is  an  excess  of  dislike  to 
what  is  unrefined.  I  am  too  fastidious,  for  merit  gives 
me  no  pleasure  without  polish." 

"  You  speak  of  this  as  a  fault  in  a  tone  that  betrays 
that  you  are  proud  of  ir,"said  Perdita.  indignantly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he. 

"  You   have   nothing  for   which   to  beg   my  pardon. 

Ah "     She  fancied  suddenly  that  he  was  asking  her 

pardon,  because  he  meant  to  include  her  own  relations  in 
the  sweeping  speech  he  had  made.  The  color  rushed  into 
her  face,  her  nostrils  dilated,  her  eyes  flashed, — she  looked 
quite  beautiful. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  undeceiving  me  in  the  belief  that 
there  might  have  been  friendship  between  us — it  is  at  an 


98  BITA. 

end;  but  though  it  may  be  wrong  to  say  so,  Sir  Edward, 
I  have  the  courage  to  say  that,  in  some  cases  at  least,  the 
parvenu  may  be  the  truer  gentleman." 

After  this  she  ought  to  have  left  the  room,  there  was 
no  doubt  about  it;  but  as  the  fates  would  have  it,  her  leg 
was  broken,  and  his  shoulder  out  of  joint  and  badly  set; 
neither  could  move,  and  at  least  an  hour  must  elapse  be- 
fore any  interruption  could  come.  Eacli  took  up  a  book, 
but  each  saw  that  the  other  was  not  reading,  and  both 
were  very  angry  indeed.  She  had  called  him,  or  at  least 
had  as  good  as  told  him,  that  he  was  not  so  true  a  gentle- 
man as  old  Andrew  Lovel;  and  he  had  spoken  words  that, 
as  she  understood  them,  she  could  not  easily  forgive.  The 
clock  struck  twelve — then  its  single  stroke  announced 
half-past. 

"  They  are  a  long  time  coming  in,"  said  Sir  Edward, 
stiffly. 

No  answer.     Sir  Edward  went  back  to  his  book. 

Presently  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  came  in. 

"  It  is  very  fortunate  that  you  two  can  entertain  each 
other,"  she  said,  good-humored ly;  "  for  I  am  obliged  to 
go  down  to  the  lodge  to  see  a  child  there  who  has  burnt 
her  foot,  and  the  others  will  not  be  home  till  luncheon. 
But  I  have  devised  a  new  plan  of  amusement  for  you;  I 
am  going  to  push  your  sofa  nearer  to  the  window,  Dita,  so 
that  you  and  Sir  Edward  can  play  chess." 

"  I  am  so  much  interested  in  my  book,"  said  Perdita. 

"But  I  have  finished  mine,"  cried  Sir  Edward. 

"Very  well,  I  will  just  put  you  where  you  can  play  if 
you  like.  There — is  that  comfortable?" 

"  The  light  hurts  my  eyes,"  said  Dita,  ungraciously. 

"There — is  that  better?"  and  their  good-natured 
hostess  pulled  down  one  of  the  blinds. 

"  Thank  you,"  they  both  said,  and  Mrs.  Lee  Astou  bus- 
tled away. 

They  were  close  together,  and  neither  could  move,  and 
yet  they  had  had  a  deadly  quarrel,  and  it  was  an  hour  and 
a  half  to  luncheon. 

They  raised  their  eyes  at  the  same  moment;  there  was 
something  irresistibly  funny  in  the  situation,  and  in  spite 
of  their  anger  they  both  laughed.  Sir  Edward  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  It  was  really  and  truly  a  thoughtless  speech,  Miss 


DITA.  1J'J 

Lovel,"  he  said.  "I  declare  that  I  meant  nothing  that 
could  offend  you.  Good  heavens!  what  would  you  have 
me  mean?" 

"Well,  perhaps  you  did  not,"  she  said,  slowly. 

"After  my  apology  I  expect  one  confession  from  you." 

"None,"  said  Perdita,  decidedly, 

"  Yes,  I  have  earned  it;  and  it  is  this — he  is  a  Caliban, 
is  he  not?" 

"No." 

"Yes,  he  is  a  Caliban." 

"Very  well,  so  be  it,"  she  said  inpatiently. 

"  And  you  are  Miranda,  and  I  am  Ferdinand,  and  so 
we  will  play  chess,"  he  said,  beginning  to  arrange  the 
board. 

"Then,"  said  Perdita,  hesitatingly,  "you  do  not  mind 
about  what  I  said." 

"No,"  said  he,  superbly;  "you  were  in  a  passion." 

"I  wish  I  could  have  walked  out  of  the  room,"  said 
Dita,  vindictively. 

"  Yes,  but  heaven  interfered.  " 

The  game  lasted  until  the  whole  party  came  in  to 
luncheon.  The  extreme  pleasure  he  took  in  this  daily 
intercourse  with  Perdita  at  last  opened  Sir  Edward  Nor- 
ton's eyes — lie  was  deeply,  devotedly  in  love  with  her. 
This  only  was  wanting  to  show  him  that  the  obstacles  he 
himself  had  raised  were  very  slight  in  reality.  A  man 
must  be  ungenerous  who  will  not  owe  fortune  to  the  wom- 
an lie  loves — and  generosity  was  as  strong  an  element 
as  pride  in  his  composition.  It  was  enough  that  he  loved 
her,  the  world  might  say  what  it  would.  Some  painful 
ordeals  would  have  to  be  faced:  he  would  have  to  see  An- 
drew in  authority  in  his  own  hereditary  home,  he  would 
have  to  owe  fortune  and  Perdita  and  Salford  all  to  this 
man;  but  all  would  be  nothing  if  she  would  consent  to  be 
his  wife.  He  now  gave  himself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  present:  never  had  he  made  himself  so  charming,  never 
had  he  been  so  gay,  so  almost  boyishly  light-hearted;  and 
as  Perdita  shyly  received  his  attentions,  his  hope  became 
stronger  and  stronger  that  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him. 

"  Nannie,"  said  Andrew  to  his  wife  one  day,  "some 
day  we  shall  lose  our  little  Dita." 

"  What  makes  you  say  so?''  she  asked,  startled. 

"I  have  just  returned  from  Lee  Aston,  and   Perdita 


100  DITJL. 

comes  home  to-morrow,  and  Sir  Ed  \vard  goes  back  to  the 
Grange,  and  he  is  to  go  up  to  London  at  once  to  have  his 
arm  reset." 

"Well?"  said  Nannie. 

"  When  he  comes  back  we  shall  see  him  again. 

'  The  sweet  youth's  in  lovel' " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IT  was  December,  and  all  the  heather-bloom  was  dead 
«n  the  hills  round  Dnnmonaigb,  and  its  brown  hue  gave 
a  deep  russet  color  to  the  landscape;  here  and  there  a 
larch's  yellowed  foliage  gleamed  like  gold,  but  all  the 
leaves  were  gono  from  the  hard-wood  trees. 

The  snow  had  not  yet  fallen,  nor  had  there  been  frost 
enough  to  bind  the  lake  with  ice. 

The  ceremony  of  receiving  the  chief  and  his  bride  had 
always  been  gone  through  with  the  same  formalities. 

The  carriages  drove  to  the  further  end  of  the  lake,  and 
bride  and  bridegroom  were  rowed  across  to  the -castle 
by  twelve  of  the  best  men  of  the  clan. 

The  marriage  had  taken  place  in  England,  and  it  .was 
the  20th  of  December  before  Lady  Grisel  stood  waiting 
for  the  home-coming. 

Master  Malcolm,  whose  hair  was  as  white  as  snow, 
seemed  as  anxious  as  the  mother  herself.  What  would 
she  be  like,  this  young  English  bride,  who  was  coming 
among  them?  Lady  Grisel  knew  little  of  her — had  only 
seen  that  she  was  very  young,  and  fair,  and  childish. 
She  sat  unright  by  the  fire,  her  hands  clasped  together. 
Time  had  wrought  little  change  in  her — had  brought  a 
little  more  silver  into  her  hair,  more  softness  into  the  fine 
dark  eyes;  little  but  that,  for  her  life  had  been  still  and 
monotonous.  And  it  is  the  storm-tossed  rock  that  is 
broken,  not  that  which  is  washed  by  the  slow  dash  of  even 
waves. 

Still  and  monotonous!  Years  ago  what  a  fate  would 
that  have  seemed  to  Grisclda  Fitz- James!  She  never 
knew  when  her  ambition  died,  nor  traced  the  cause  of  its 
decease;  but  after  Ewau's  death,  her  old  longing  that 


DITA.  101 

Angus  should  make  to  himself  a  name  and  position  be- 
came chastened  and  subdued,  and  in  his  successes  and 
failures  her  rejoicing  and  disappointment  were  only  . 
pathetic — she  hardly  knew  herself. 

Angus  also  was  changed,  and  the  wealth  he  had  longed 
for  so  eagerly  seemed  to  weigh  on  his  spirits  like  lead. 
The  mother  and  son  did  nothing  to  rouse  each  other, 
and  the  years  slipped  by. 

"What  o'clock  is  it  now,  Minister?"  said  Lady  Grisel, 
breaking  silence. 

'  "  Just  three — they  should  be  here  sooner:  not  yet  Lady 
Grisel,"  he  added;  "  we  shall  hear  the  shouts  and  the 
bagpipes  as  they  approach,  and  it  will  be  time  enough 
then  to  go  to  the  door." 

"Poor  bride!  it  is  cold,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  shivering. 

"Cold  without,  but  right  warm  within,"  said  the 
worthy  Minister. 

"  It  will  seem  very  strange  to  her;  Angus  and  I  have 
grown  rusty  together,"  said  the  mother,  anxiously.  "And 
when  I  think  of  a  blithe  young  girl  coming  to  share  our 
quiet  life,  I  fear  for  her  happiness.  I  hope  he  will  be 
kind  to  her,"  she  said,  nervously. 

"She  will  bring  sunshine  to  the  old  place,"  said  Master 
Malcolm,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "  It  will  be  good  for 
all  to  have  the  youth  and  sweetness  of  a  bonnie  lassie 
among  us — Angus  is  far  too  grave." 

"He  is  more  than  grave,"  she  said;  "he  is  gloomy, 
and  easily  irritated,  and  but  seldom  smiles  or  laughs — 
poor  little  bride!  but  it  will  be  different  now,  will  it  not?'' 

"  Yes,"  answered  he,  smiling.  "All  cannot  have  the 
same  spirits  as  poor  Ewan;  even  now  I  can  fancy  I  hear 
his  clear  ringing  laugh  and  halloo  to  the  dogs  on  the 
brae." 

"Natures  are  different,"  she  said,  very  low.  "But 
there  was  a  time  when  Angus  also  was  gay.  I  have  been 
but  a  bad  companion;  my  company  has  sent  mirth  flying 
with  outspread  wings." 

"  Yet  Angus's  gravity  has  won  him  the  maiden  of  his 
heart,"  said  the  Minister;  "and  we  hear  that  she  is  good, 
and  loving,  and  pretty." 

"God  grant  her  happiness,"  said  Lady  Grisel. — 
"  Hark!  is  that  not  music?" 

"I  think  not;  we  will  see,"     lie  opened  the  door,  and 


102  DITA. 

Lady  Grisel  went  out  on  the  steps,  and  shading  her  eyes 
with  her  hand,  looked  over  the  loch. 

Nothing  was  to  be  seen  yet;  hnt  far  away  sounded 
faintly  the  shrill  wild  music  of  the  bagpipes.  She  re- 
mained standing  on  the  steps,  and  the  water  washed  al- 
most up  to  her  feet:  it  looked  very  deep  and  gray,  and 
the  castle  threw  a  dark,  undefined  shadow  over  it — only 
the  scarlet  flag  reflecting  a  blood-red  stain. 

"  The  day  of  our  home-coming,"  said  Lady  Grisel, 
dreamily,  "was  all  joy  and  sunshine;  the  loch  sparkled 
like  diamonds,  and  the  hills  glowed  with  crimson  heather 
and  golden  gorse.  It  -was  many  years  ago,  Minister,  and 
the  days  seem  to  me  types  of  the  life  at  Dunmonaigh  then 
and  no'w,  and  when  I  look  into  my  own  heart,  I  read  that 
the  fault  is  mine." 

"Do  not  be  afraid,  Lady  Grisel,  said  Master  Malcolm 
again.  "The  bride  will  bring  with  her  her  own  store  of 
happiness,  and  you  must  arouse  yourselves,  and  be  gay 
for  her  sake;  and  by-and-by  when  she  has  taken  root  here, 
you  will  hear  her  singing  about  the  house  as  all  happy 
lassies  do.  Come  in,  it  is  very  cold." 

"No,  no— listen!" 

Now  on  the  ear  swelled  the  music  louder  and  louder, 
and  the  sound  of  ever-increasing  cheering,  till  round  a 
bend  of  the  loch  the  little  fleet  of  boats  swept  swiftly. 
Lady  Grisel  strained  her  eyes,  till  in  the  foremost  boat 
she  could  see  Angus  with  his  young  bride.  Flags  and 
streamers  flying  from  the  boats,  made  the  scene  brilliant 
with  color,  and  the  pipers  played  with  enthusiasm  the 
welcome  of  Clan  Mouach  to  their  chief  and  his  bride. 
Onward,  with  long  sweeping  strokes,  came  the  foremost 
boat,  and  swept  up  to  the  steps.  The  two  first  of  the 
ir. en  leaped  out,  and  crossing  their  dirks  behind  the  bride 
co  'ducted  her  to  Lady  Grisel,  who  received  her  into  her 
an.  s. 

"  Welcome!  welcome!"  was  all  she  could  say,  as  she 
drew  them  in  to  the  warm  fireside. 

Her  heart  was  so  full,  she  could  only  look  at  them,  and 
hardly  speak. 

Angus's  cheek  flushed,  and  his  restless  eyes  more  rest- 
less than  usual;  he  grasped  Master  Malcolm's  hand  with  a 
pressure  that  was  more  convulsive  than  affectionate,  and 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 


DITA.  103 

Mabel  sat  by  the  fire  with  her  warm  white  furs  all  round 
her.  She  looked  a  fair  sweet  specimen  of  a  young  En- 
glish girl;  the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheek,  and  her 
soft  eyes  followed  every  movement  of  her  husband's. 

Lady  Grisel's  strong  emotion  puzzled  and  confused  her, 
and  after  the  first  warm  kiss  she  knew  not  how  to  act. 

At  last  the  servants  announced  that  the  crowd  had 
abandoned  their  boats,  and  gathered  again;  and  Lady 
Grisel  led  the  way  to  the  great  door.  She  passed  out  first 
and  then  presented  the  bride  to  the  people  with  a  solemn 
movement,  as  if  she  went  through  some  strange  old  cere- 
mony. Then  the  Minister  presented  to  her  the  keys  of 
the  castle,  and  in  the  sight  of  the  crowd,  she  handed  them 
to  the  new-wedded  chatelaine. 

The  cheering  and  music  began  again,  louder  and  louder, 
only  checked  for  Angus  to  utter  a  few  words  of  thanks. 

Then  the  servants  came  out,  and  some  went  in,  and 
there  was  feasting  and  drinking  and  dancing  in  the  great 
stone  kitchen,  and  cheering  and  shouts  of  welcome,  far 
into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  PERDITA!  come  here,  Perdita!"  Andrew  came  into 
the  great  hall  in  search  of  the  child. 

"  I  am  here,"  she  said,  putting  her  fair  head  up  from 
the  low  seat  in  the  cloister  window.  "Why  so  formal, 
daddy?  Mine  is  a  strange  case!  I  have  two  long  dignified 
names  of  my  own,  another  softer  name  by  which  I  am 
named,  and  even  that  is  shorn  of  its  first  syllable,  unless 
you  wish  to  make  use  of  me,  and  send  mammie  a  mes- 
sage per — Dita." 

"  Saucy  child,  1  must  run  your  errands  now  that  you 
are  lame." 

"  Ah!  I  can  walk  alone  now — see!"  and  disdaining  her 
crutches,  Perdita  put  out  her  arms  for  balance,  and  came 
slowly  forward. 

"  There,  that  is  enough!"  cried  Andrew,  eagerly  push- 
ing a  chair  to  her.  ft  Don't  be  imprudent;  sit  down  and 
arrange  this  bouquet,"  and  he  threw  a  great  bunch  of  flow' 
ers  on  the  table. 

Perdita  began  to  separate  thorn,  and  Andrew  sat  down 


104  DITA. 

by  her.  "  Your  mother  looks  much  better,  Dita,  does  she 
not?" 

"  A  thousand  million  times  better,"  she  answered,  gay- 
ly.  "  I  am  sure  Dr.  Grant  understands  her,  and  every 
time  you  quote  Shakespeare,  daddy,  it  is  like  atonic  to 
her." 

"  Perdita  arranging  flowers  and  not  talking  Shakespeare, 
is  an  anomaly;  begin  at  once,  young  lady,"  said  Andrew. 
Dita  began — 

"Here's  flowers  for 3-011, — 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram; 
The  marigold  that  goes  to  bed  wi'  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping;  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  they  are  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.     You're  very  welcome." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Perdita.  "Is  not  that  an  apt  quota- 
tion.? I  have  not  recited  my  Perdita  speeches  since  I  was 
a  very  little  child,  and  had  a  beautiful  long  mane.  What 
an  orchid,  daddy!  Do  tell  Adams  to  grow  a  great  many 
more  of  this  kind." 

"  Orchids!  orchids!  where  do  you  find  orchids  in 
Shakespeare?  All  old-fashioned  flowers  for  me." 

"  You  must  introduce  orchids  in  your  own  plays,  then. 
Of  course  lie  would  have  introduced  them  if  he  had  seen 
such  beauties  as  these;  they  are  more  like  the  flowers  of 
Paradise  than  of  earth,"  she  said,  enthusiastically. 

"  Yes,  especially  that  monkey-faced  specimen,"  said 
Mr.  Lovel,  with  supreme  contempt. 

l/i ta  Jttrtgnea.  ••  They  have  a  new  one  at  the  Lee 
Astons',"  she  said,  "which  I  had  never  seen  before.  Mrs. 
Lee  Aston  promised  to  tell  me  the  name,  but  I  forgot  it." 

"  Were  you  very  happy  there?"  asked  Andrew,  rather 
wistfully. 

"Oh,  so  very,  very  happy!"  answered  Dita.  "They 
were  all  more  kind  to  me  than  I  could  express.  Hark! 
do  you  hear  Jaque's  violin?" 

There  came  to  their  ears  a  lovely,  far -distant  sound, 
rising  and  falling,  passing  through  strange  cadences,  now 
sweet,  now  straining,  then  swelling  into  those  yearning 
sounds  which  make  the  listener  feel  as  if  the  musician 
played  on  his  very  heart-strings. 

Neither  spoke  while  it  lasted,  but  when    the   musk 


DITA.  105 

broke  off  abruptly  in  an  nnfinisi-ed  passage,  they  looked 
at  each  other  in  astonishment. 

"  I  never  heard  Jaques  do  that  before,  what  can  have 
happened?"  said  Perdita.  "  Dear  d.iddy,  an  you  love  me, 
look  out  of  the  drawing-room  window — the  sound  of  the 
music  comes  from  the  shrubbery — and  tell  me  whether 
Jaques  lives,  or  has  fallen  dead!" 

The  sound  of  the  violin  was  again  heard  as  of  a  hand 
dashed  across  it — a  curious  twanging  discord,  all  out  of 
tune  like  a  breaking  heart.  Perdita  gave  a  little  shiver 
and  turned  to  her  flowers;  some  of  the  ferns  had  been  too 
long  out  of  water  and  were  dead,  and  she  threw  them 
aside. 

Andrew  returned  from  the  window,  saying,  gayly, 

"  Jaques's  abrupt  ending  was  owing  to  the  arrival  of  a 
visitor.  You  will  find  it  hard  to  believe,  Dita.  It  was 
Sir  Edward  Norton,  who  has  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to 
come  under  the  roof  of  Salford  Abbey." 

The  color  flushed  into  Dita's  face,  and  she  turned  away 
her  head;  but  Andrew  saw  it,  and  the  shy  sweet  smile  on 
her  lips,  and  he  smiled  and  sighed. 

Five,  ten  minutes  passed  and  he  did  not  come  in,  then 
Andrew  went  once  more  to  the  drawing-room  window. 

'•'Sir  Edward  has  stopped  to  have  a  little  conversation 
with  Jaques,"  he  said.  ''They  are  under  the  oak-tree; 
he  has  fastened  the  reins  of  his  horse  to  a  branch;  they 
are  going  into  the  shrubbery." 

'*  I  think  mammie  must  be  down  by  this  time,"  was 
Perdita's  answer;  and,  taking  the  prettiest  flowers,  she 
went  to  Mrs.  Lovel's  room. 

"  'Ban,  'Ban — Ca-Caliban, 
Has  a  new  master — Get  a  new  man. 
Freedom!  heyday  1" 

Quotations  are  infectious,  and  Sir  Edward  muttered 
these  words- to  himself  as  he  rode  up  the  road  and  espied 
Jaques's  uncouth  figure  playing  on  the  lawn. 

The  music  broke  short  with  that  strange  twang,  and 
he  also  shuddered,  and  wondered  at  the  jar  of  the  nerves 
it  produced.  And  lo!  Caliban  strode  across  his  path, 
and,  hand  on  rein,  entreated  for  five  minutes'  conversa- 
tion. 

Sir  Edward,  much  surprised,  dismounted  very  unwill- 


106  DITA. 

ingly.  His  horse  was  a  quiet  old  animal,  fitted  to  carry 
a  man  with  one  arm  in  a  sling,  and  he  tied  him  to  a  tree 
and  signified  to  Jaques  that  he  was  ready  to  listen  to  him. 
It  seemed  doubly  hard  just  now  —  he  was  going  to  meet 
his  fate;  to  lay  all  —  his  love,  his  pride,  his  poverty  —at  the 
feet  of  his  fair  lady;  and  the  hope  that  he  had  won  her 
love  made  all  sacrifice  seem  as  nothing  to  him. 

What  could  Jaques  have  to  say  to  him?  His  rugged 
face  was  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  his  eyes  were  troubled. 

"We  cannot  talk  here,  sir,"  he  said,  rather  hoarsely. 
"Would  you  mind  coming  a  few  steps  with  me  into  the 
ihrubbery?" 

"  I  do  not  mind  standing,  Mr.  Danby,  and  we  can  speak 
just  as  well  here.  I  am  rather  in  haste." 

"I  will  not  keep  you  —  that  is  -  " 

"You  will  forgive  me,  if  I  ask  you  not  to  detain  me 
long.  If  you  could  call  on  me  at  the  Grange,  for  instance, 
I  should  be  able  to  attend  to  you  better." 

"No,  now  —  I  must  speak  to  you  now,  sir." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sir  Edward,  impatiently;  "  I  am  all 
attention." 

"  For  what  object  have  you  overcome  your  horror  of 
entering  your  old  home?" 

"  You  presume,  Mr.  Danhy:  that  is  a  question  you  have 
no  right  to  ask." 

"I  have  a  right!"  cried  Jaques;  "and  if  you  will  have 
patience  with  me,  I  will  show  you  that  I  have  a  right." 

Sir  Edward  leaned  against  the  great  oak-tree,  and 
looked  at  Jaques  in  increased  astonishment. 

"  I  decline  to  answer  your  question,  Mr.  Danby,"  he 


Jaques  raised  his  eyes  and  again  looked  at  him  with 
that  earnest  look  that  had  made  Edward  Norton  feel  that 
he  was  endeavoring  to  read  him  through  and  through; 
then  he  said  abruptly  — 

I  cannot  talk  here,  Sir  Edward;  we  are  in  full  view  of 
the  windows;  for  Heaven's  sake  do  what  I  beg  of  you— 
follow  me!" 

Edward  Norton's  curiosity  was  aroused,  and,  tighten- 
ing the  bridle  on  the  branch  of  the  tree,  he  followed 
Jaques,  who  strode  on  before  him  into  the  wood. 

Danby  thrust  aside  the  boughs,  and  as  he  did  so  the 
remaining  dead  leaves  rustled  to  the  ground,  and  he 


DITA.  107 

poshed  his  way  into  a  small  open  space  where  two  paths 
crossed,  and  there  was  a  seat;  it  was  well  shut  in  from 
sight.  He  threw  himself  on  the  seat,  and  stooping  for- 
ward covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand,  the  elbow  resting  on 
.his  knee,  and  began  to  speak  at  once. 

"Sir  Edward,"  he  said,  "I  take  you  for  a  man  of 
honor." 

He  did  not  see  the  half-mocking  bow  of  assent. 

"  I  wish  to  save  you  from  either  committing  an  action 
that  you  will  always  regret,  or  one  that  you  cannot  do 
without  forfeiting  that  honor." 

"  You  speak  in  riddles,  Mr.  Danby." 

"  Sir  Edward,  I  am  not  clever  or  even  clear-sighted, 
but  I  have  discerned  your  love  for  our  Perdita." 

"I  desire  you  to  be  silent,  sir,"  said  Edward  Norton, 
angrily.  "  These  matters  concern  no  one  but  myself,  and 
I  will  not  permit  Miss  Lovel's  name  to  be  used.  You 
assume  too  much." 

"  Has  no  one  feelings  but  yourself?"  cried  Jaques,  start- 
ing up.  "She  is  my  adoration;  she  has  been  my  idol 
since  I  first  taught  her  little  feet  to  walk,  her  sweet 
voice  to  lisp  my  name;  for  years,  years  have  I  loved  her 
— you  have  only  known  her  a  few  short  weeks." 

"  This  is  intolerable,"  muttered  Sir  Edward. 

"  I  did  not  call  you  to  tell  you  that!"  went  on  Jaques, 
excitedly.  "  I  called  you  to  prove  your  love;  to  find  out 
whether  it  has  power  to  break  through  the  traditions  of 
your  haughty  race.  Have  you  considered  well?"  he  said, 
in  a  strange,  hard  voice.  "  Perdita  is  not  your  equal." 

"Mr.  Danby." 

"  Hush!  I  will  not  detain  you;  but  have  patience  with 
me,  1  beseech  you." 

Something  pathetic  in  the  voice  of  the  strange  being 
before  him  made  Sir  Edward  put  aside  his  indignation 
and  resolve  to  listen. 

"You  have  considered  how  far  beneath  you  she  is  in 
position?" 

"I  have." 

"  That  the  Lovels  are  of  very  humble  origin:  he  a  book- 
seller in  London,  she  a  petty  farmer's  daughter,  trained 
to  milk  the  cows." 

"I  know." 


108 

"  You  know  them  to  be  honest;  good,  and  true,  al- 
though such  homely  folks." 

"Yes — all  else  is  nothing." 

"You  know  that  the  world  will  say  that,  for  the  sake 
of  Salford,  you  have  bowed  your  pride  to  wed  the  daughter 
of  a  tradesman." 

"I  do  not  care." 

"  Your  love,  then,  is  strong  enough  to  overcome  more 
obstacles  than  these?" 

'•There  are  no  more " 

"Man!  man!"  cried  Jaques,  eagerly,  "you  are  not 
equal " 

"In  everything!"  cried  Sir  Edward;  "for  she  brings 
such  a  dower  of  goodness  and  innate  nobility,  that  my 
poor  advantages  of  birth  scarcely  level  the  scale." 

"  You  love  her  so  well  that  if — if " 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Sir  Edward. 

"  This, — you  think  to  wed  the  child  of  honest  folks — 
a  bride  whose  birth,  though  of  humble  origin,  is  as  honest 
as  your  own.  This  is  not  so." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  Speak,  or  I  will  wring  it  from 
you,"  and  he  seized  his  arm. 

"Perdita  is  no  child  of  theirs;  they  took  her  orphaned 
from  the  workhouse,  mid  she  has  no  name." 

Sir  Edward  staggered  back  against  the  tree  as  white  as 
death.  Jaqnes  laughed  bitterly. 

"This  straw  has  broken  the  camel's  back,"  he  said. 
"Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  she  is  no  fit  bride  for  you, — too 
low  of  birth,  and  a  thousand  times  too  high  for  the  scorn 
of  your  noble  family!  I  have  warned  you;  for  if  you  had 
pledged  your  troth,  and,  hearing  the  truth,  had  broken 
it,  by  the  Heaven  above  us,  I  could  have  murdered 
you!  I  have  saved  your  pride  or  your  honor,  Sir  Edward 
Norton." 

"I  have  been  grossly  deceived." 

"  I  have  undeceived  you  now.  I  was  right,  was  T  not? 
The  obstacle  is  too  strong." 

"Leave  me  to  think; — you  will  drive  me  mad!  The 
workhouse!  a  nameless  orphan!  Danbv,  are  you  telling 
me  the  truth?" 

"As  I  hope  for  salvation.  You  can  look  in  the  case- 
books of  the  workhouse  in  King  John  Street,  Soho,  and 


DITA.  109 

you  will  find  No.  14.     The  father  at  least  was  a  gentle- 
man, the  mother  an  Italian,  and " 

"Step,  stop!  you  torture  me.  Danby,  you  are  right; 
the  obstacle  is  too  strong,  0  Dita,  even  for  you!"  A  look 
of  agony  passed  over  his  face,  and  he  almost  broke  down; 
then  added  suddenly — "  All  this,  of  course,  is  quite 
private  between  ourselves,  and  she  need  never  know." 

Jaques  was  standing  watching  him  fixedly:  "I  judged 
rightly,"  he  safd  between  his  teeth;  "and  it  would  have 
broken  her  heart." 

Sir  Edward  was  turning  away,  when  he  suddenly  came 
back. 

"  You  meant  well,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  and  I  am  not 
ungrateful." 

"  I  do  not  care  for  your  gratitude,"  said  Jaques, 
roughly,  "I  have  saved  Perdita  from  what  she  might 
have  had  to  bear  if  the  truth  had  come  too  late,  and  proved 
too  hard." 

"And  you  love  her  also?" 

"  I  love  her  as  mortals  love  the  angels, — she  is  the  idol 
of  my  life!" 

"And  I?" 

"Take  refuge  with  your  dignity;"  and  Jaques  broke 
through  the  trees  and  was  gone. 

Mr.  Lovel  came  into  his  wife's  sitting-room.  Perdita 
sat  on  a  stool  by  her  sofa,  her  head  in  her  mother's  lap, 
while  Nannie  played  with  her  yellow  hair;  her  rosy  lips 
smiled  with  the  shy  joyousness  of  a  child. 

"After  all,  Dita,  our  visitor  has  not  come  in,"  said  he, 
in  a  disturbed  voice.  "  When  he  came  out'of  the  shrub- 
bery he  mounted  his  horse  and  galloped  off  like  a  very 
madman,  nor  looked  once  behind  him." 

A  little  shadow  passed  over  the  young  girl's  brow,  a 
light  seemed  to  have  gone  from  her  life,  a  vague  sense  of 
a  cloud  passing  between  her  and  the  sun.  Who  does  not 
know  that  chill  feeling? 

"I  fancy  Jaques  must  have  said  something  to  him 
which  offended  him.  I  wonder  what  it  could  have  been!" 
continued  Andrew,  uneasily;  "and  Jaques  is  playing 
again  so  strangely." 

"  I  will   go  to  him,"  said    Dita,  calmly  rising;    and 


110  DITA. 

Andrew,  anxious  to  talk  to  Nannie,  did  not  seek  to  stop 
her. 

The  violin  was  sounding  strangely  wild,  passing  from 
one  mad  strain  to  another,  fast  and  loud,  with  a  kind 
of  wail  in  its  merriment  that  made  it  weird  and  un- 
natural. 

Perdita  went  out,  the  colors  of  earth,  trees,  and  sky 
seemed  dimmed  because  of  the  shadow  that  had  com? 
bet \veen  her  and  the  sun.  She  came  up  to  the  musi- 
cian as  he  stood  playing  under  the  oak  and  put  out 
her  hand,  the  notes  died  faintly  away. 

"  Jaques,"  she  said,  drearily — "  Jaques,  he  is  gone." 

"Yes,  yes,  Miss  Dita,  and  it  is  better  so." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  did  not  know  how  faith- 
fully he  read  the  simple  story  in  their  dark  depths.  One 
long,  deep  sigh  he  gave,  then  he  turned  his  head  aside, 
and  said,  without  looking  at  her — 

"  I  told  him  your  real  origin — his  love  was  not  enough, 
to  conquer." 

"  I  know,"  she  said,  softly.  He  began  to  play  again  a 
little  soft  cadence,  and  while  the  sweetest  sounds  swelled 
forth,  she  went  gently  away.  His  hand  passed  roughly 
over  the  instrument,  and  a  string  cracked  loudly:  Jaques 
put  down  his  violin  and  sat  down  on  the  ground, — there 
was  a  look  in  his  face  of  intense  suffering,  but  he  set  to 
work  patiently  to  mend  the  broken  string  and  his  broken 
heart. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  December  that  had  begun  so  well  grew  colder  and 
T,  and  snow  six  inches  deep  lay  on  the  ground  on 
Christmas-day.  The  birds  had  nothing  to  eat;  Perdita 
fed  them  from  her  windows,  and  delighted  in  their  in- 
creasing tarn  en  ess.  Mrs.  Lovel  never  left  the  house,  and 
in  her  warm  rooms  she  managed  to  remain  pretty  well. 
Perdita  was  no  longer  lame,  but  she  could  not  be  out  quite 
as  much  as  she  used  to  be,  and  the  life  atSalford  was  very 
still  and  quiet. 

There  was  an  unspoken  shadow  over  them  all.  Perdita 
had  thought  her  secret  all  her  own,  and  did  not  know 


DITA.  Ill 

that  the  three  who  loved  her  best  had  seen  all,  and  to  each 
other  hud  spoken  openly.  Jaques  told  Mrs.  Lovel  what 
he  had  done;  he  told  her  that  he  knew  the  strong  pride  of 
Edward  Norton's  family, — it  was  a  proverb  in  the  place; 
he  told  her  that  long  ago  he  had  foreseen  what  would  come, 
and  dreaded  the  effect  of  the  disclosure  of  Perdita's  true 
birth. 

"It  was  to  save  her  I  did  it,"  faltered  Jaques.  "He 
would  have  broken  it  off,  or  if  not  he,  his  family  would 
have  done  it  for  him,  and  she  would  have  suffered."  He 
said  that  an  instinct  warned  him  when  he  saw  him  riding 
along,  that  the  time  to  speak  had  come.  And  Nannie 
could  not  but  acknowledge  that  he  had  done  well  and 
wisely. 

Perdita  was  not  sad,  only  she  was  no  longer  gay,  and 
now  and  then  looked  very  wistful;  her  love  for  Edward 
Norton  was  not  admitted  or  acknowledged  even  to  her- 
self; so  when  lie  went  away,  and  never  came  again,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  dull  aching  in  lier  heart  which  she 
scarcely  understood. 

On  Christmas-day  she  and  her  father  walked  down  to 
the  church  together.  It  was  a  hard  frost,  and  the  crisp 
snow  crackled  under  foot,  and  the  trees,  powdered  with 
sparkling  hoar-frost,  looked  like  frosted  silver;  above,  the 
sullen  gray  sky  was  heavy  with  snow  yet  to  come. 

When  a  young  heart  is  gay  and  joyous,  cold  brightens 
and  invigorates;  when  it  is  sad,  even  a  little  sad,  cold 
gnaws  and  chills.  Perdita  hurried  through  the  snow  and 
drew  her  fur  cloak  tighter  round  her. 

It  was  a  little,  simple  old  church,  with  a  square  low 
tower  of  great  antiquity.  The  congregation  were  mostly 
laborers  and  their  families.  The  clergyman  was  very  old, 
and  during  his  life  no  restoration  could  be  made.  Dita 
had  placed  holly  wreaths  in  the  windows,  and  all  the  best 
flowers  she  could  find  in  the  green-houses  decked  the 
church;  and  all  eyes  were  fixed  admiringly  on  her  work. 

They  came  111  and  went  straight  to  the  squire's  pew, 
which  faced  the  pulpit;  it  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  and 
Perdita  knelt  down  covering  her  face  with  her  slender 
fingers.  Quite  in  the  background  came  in  among  the  la- 
borers an  unwonted  figure.  Sir  Edward  Norton,  looking 
very  ill  and  worn,  sat  down  at  the  fur  end  of  the  church, 


112  DITA. 

where  he  could  see  the  fair  outlines  of  Perdita's  face  and 
her  waving  golden  hair  above  the  old  oak  ]>e\v.  He  did 
not  move  when  during  the  service  the  congregation  rose 
up  and  knelt  down,  hut  sat  still,  leaning  forward  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  her  as  though  he  would  pwnt  her  image  on 
his  brain. 

Then  came  a  hymn — the  glorious  Christmas  hymn, 
which  is  grand  even  when  sung  by  school-children  in  a 
village  church — and  in  the  middle  of  the  sacred  strain  he 
•stole  away  out.  Perdita  looked  half  round,  bnt  she  never 
ceased  singing.  A  ray  of  light  pierced  through  the  som- 
ber sky  and  lighted  up  her  hair  till  it  seemed  to  shine  like 
a  halo. 

A  dog-cart  was  waiting  outside,  a  portmanteau  within 
it,  and  Edward  Norton  was  driven  swiftly  away  to  the 
station. 

"Dita,"  said  her  father  gently,  as  they  walked  home, 
"Do  you  know  who  was  in  church?" 

"Sir  Edward  Norton,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You  knew?" 

"I  thought  so." 

"  It  was  his  good  -by.  Lady  Norton  came  yesterday. 
She  has  persuaded  him  to  go  abroad — he  has  been  ill. 
He  goes  to-day." 

"Let  us  walk  faster,  dady — it  is  very  cold."  And 
they  walked  quickly  on. 

Nannie  was  able  to  come  into  the  dining-room  that  day, 
and  afterward  the  usual  distribution  of  dinners  and  gifts 
took  place.  By  four  o'clock  all  was  over,  and  Dita  nestled 
into  her  favorite  little  corner  by  Mrs.  Level's  sofa  with  a 
book,  and  Jaques  and  Andrew  went  out  for  a  walk. 
Suddenly  the  door-bell  rang  with  a  loud,  vigorous  pull, 
and  within  five  minutes  a  whole  tribe  of  Lee  Astons  and 
Grethards  poured  into  the  room — all  the  schoolroom  party 
— headed  by  Meta.  They  had  come,  they  said,  to  carry 
off  Perdita,  by  force  if  necessary;  they  were  to  have 
charades  and  tableaux  vivants,  and  every  kind  of  amuse- 
ment for  a  house  full  of  children;  and  Jack  had  come 
home  and  persuaded  his  mother  to  send  them  off  to  bring 
the  solitary  little  home-bird  into  their  merry  circle. 

Perdita's  cheek  flushed,  and  there  came  to  her  a  longing 
wish  to  be  one  of  the  children  again,  merry  and  happy, 


DITA.  113 

and  free  from  care;  there  came  into  her  mind  the  refrain 
of  that  pathetic  song, — 

"  Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for  to-night." 

She  was  tired  of  the  blank — tired  of  the  long  day;  her 
youth  resented  care,  she  was  so  young. 

Mrs.  Lovel's  watchful  eye  saw  and  read  Dita's  face,  and 
she  accepted  for  her  eagerly,  and  would  not  listen  to  her 
assertions  that  she  could  not  leave  them  alone  on  Christ- 
mas-day. 

She  was  not  to  return  that  night;  and  in  less  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  Perdita,  and  a  box  containing  all  that 
she  would  want,  were  packed  closely  into  the  little  omni- 
bus full  of  children.  It  was  a  gay  scene  into  which  Dita 
came,  blinking  her  large  eyes,  from  the  darkness;  and  she 
was  quickly  divested  of  her  warm  wraps,  coaxed  and  pet- 
ted, and  made  much  of,  and  immensely  amused  by  all 
the  merry  games  going  on  among  children  and  elders  to- 
gether. 

She  had  wondered  in  the  carriage  how  she  should  meet 
Jack;  but  he  came  swiftly  up,  with  a  warm  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  with  rather 
boisterous  fun.  All  seemed  like  a  dream,  the  noise  and 
the  warmth  and  the  shouts,  as  they  played  earth,  air,  and 
water;  and  for  half  a  moment  she  shut  her  eyes,  to  try 
and  realize  it  all;  but  she  was  summarily  roused  by  a 
sharp  blow  from  the  ball,  and  a  shout  of  earth,  1,  2,  3,  4, 
5,  6,  7. 

•'Trout,  salmon,  eagle!"  she  cried,  in  an  agony  of 
hurry,  and  then  followed  a  burst  of  laughter;  she  was 
fairly  roused,  and  found  herself  playing  with  as  much 
vigor  as  little  Dick,  the  youngest  Grethard,  still  in  knick- 
erbockers. Then  came  a  pause,  and  in  marched  the  butler, 
carrying  a  magnificent  dish  of  snap-dragon,  and  the  lamps 
were  carried  out,  and  the  fun  rose  to  the  highest  pitch. 
One  of  Lady  Aniline's  children,  little  Alice,  was  rather 
frightened,  and  Dita  held  her  hand  to  coax  her.  Then 
the  salt  was  thrown  on,  and  the  usual  effect  produced, — 
Jack  and  the  boys  adding  to  the  terrors  by  the  most  hor- 
rible grimaces. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  little  children  dispersed  to  bed,  and 
the  elder  onts  went  to  dress  for  dinner,  while  all  the  per- 


114  DITA. 

formers  in  the  evening's  amusement  joined  in  a  school- 
room tea. 

Perdita  begged  to  be  allowed  to  join  them — she  was  the 
merriest  among  them;  once,  when  the  recollection  of  her 
troubles  flashed  across  her,  she  wondered  at  herself,  and 
fancied  that  they  were  all  untrue, — that  her  troubles  could 
not  b.e  real — only  a  mistake. 

When  the  charades  were  over,  dancing  began.  Dita 
was  still  afraid  to  venture,  but  Mrs.  Lee  Aston  made  her 
sit  close  beside  her,  and  she  enjoyed  it  almost  as  much. 

"Not  one  dance?"  asked  Jack;  "will  you  not  dance 
even  one?  What  a  fatal  first  ball  that  was!" 

"Dita  gave  a  little  shiver;  but  she  answered  gayly, 
"  Not  one;  my  dancing  days  are  over." 

"I  wonder  what  my  Mabel  isdoing!"  said  Lady  Armine, 
wistfully;  and  her  thoughts  were  wandering  away  to  the 
first  of  her  nestlings  who  had  taken  wing. 

Far  away  in  Dunmonaigh,  Mabel  was  standing  at  her 
•window  alone,  and  the  large  tears  were  rolling  down  her 
cheeks.  Christmas-day,  when  all  families  meet  together, 
and  the  boys  are  home  from  school,  and  life  is  at  its 
brightest,  she  stood  alone,  looking  out  on  the  frozen  lake, 
•where  the  moon  gleamed  over  the  snow,  and  each  black 
Scotch  fir  was  shrouded  with  white.  It  was  very  cold,  and 
her  heart  was  full,  longing  for  the  father  and  mother  who 
loved  her  so  fondly,  for  the  noisy  brothers  and  the  merry 
sisters  who  overflowed  her  home;  all  was  so  dignified,  and 
all  seemed  so  old,  she  would  fain  have  been  silly  and 
childishly  merry  again.  Angus  was  kind,  and  Lady  Grisel 
was  even  too  anxious  to  do  all  for  her  she  could;  but  they 
were  so  wise  and  old,  and  Mabel  felt  as  if  she  were  flut- 
tering in  a  cage;  and  as  she  looked  out,  she  pressed  her 
forehead  against  the  cold  window-pane  and  sobbed,  and 
kissed  the  great  packet  of  letters  that  had  arrived  that 
riiorning,  the  loving  blessings  from  her  parents,  the  pages 
of  schoolroom  news  from  her  sisters,  and  the  boyish 
"Merry  Christmases"  from  all  the  boys. 

Then  she  started  on  hearing  her  husband's  voice,  and 
carefully  wiped  her  eyes  and  put  the  letters  away.  He 
had  thought  them  silly  in  the  morning,  and  she  would 
rather  he  did  not  speak  of  them  again;  so  she  smoothed 
her  soft  hair,  and  stole  down  stairs,  for  fear  that  Angus 
should  come  and  seek  her. 


DITA.  115 

The  dancing  at  the  Lee  Astons'  went  on  till  past  mid- 
night; then  all  was  over,  and  Perdita  went  up  to  bed. 
What  a  strange  long  day  if,  seamed!  and  then  she  -started 
and  gave  a  little  moan,  for  the  pain  came  back  to  her 
heart  with  a  sudden  pang,  and  she  knew  that  it  hud  but 
slept  for  a  time,  and  that  it  lived  and  was  very  keen. 
Her  little  simple  prayer  went  up  for  distant  friends,  for 
Edward  and  for  Mabel,  and  when  she  fell  asleep  her 
pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

N  the  spring  came  Nannie  was  not  well  enough  to 
leave  Salford,  so  the  journey  to  the  German  baths  was 
postponed  till  the  autumn,  with  which  arrangement  they 
were  all  well  pleased. 

The  fine  sunny  summer  brought  back  some  strength  to 
the  invalid;  she  was  able  to  be  constantly  out  of  doors, 
and  the  quiet  and  peace  made  her  enjoy  it  much. 

The  Armines  and  Lee  Astons,  and  all  the  gayer  neigh- 
bors, were  gone  to  London  ,  but  Perdita  was  almost  glad, 
as  it  left  her  free  to  devote  herself  to  Mrs.  Lovel,  whom 
she  watched  with  clinging  tenderness. 

At  last,  when  the  middle  of  July  was  reached  the  doctor 
would  hear  of  no  further  delay.  A  courier  was  engaged, 
and  the  whole  party  started  on  their  journey. 

Badfeld  lay,  as  do  most  of  such  towns,  in  a  valley, 
mountains  rising  hopelessly  on  every  side.  The  railway 
ran  through  the  midst  of  the  valley,  which  was  perhaps  a 
mile  wide,  and  the  low  ground  was  swampy  and  wet. 
The  town  was  built  on  a  lower  slope  of  the  hills:  a  huge 
square  hotel,  with  windows  enough  for  a  manufactory, 
stood  in  a  large  jrarden,  and  there  were  innumerable  steep 
little  walks  through  the  low  fir-woods  on  the  mountain- 
side. 

The  little  party  arrived  very  tired  after  a  hot  dusty 
journey  one  Thursday  evening,  and  found  the  courier 
(who  had  preceded  them  by  an  earlier  train)  in  despair. 
There  were  no  rooms  to  be  had  except  one  small  bedroom 
on  the  fifth  floor. 

They   looked    at  each   other   in   dismay.     The  hotel- 


116  DITA. 

keeper  could  give  them  no  hope,  though  their  rooms  had 
been  ordered  weeks  before:  more  and  more  people  were 
arriving  daily,  and  he  was  at  his  wits'  end  where  to  put 
them. 

*=f  A  large  family  came  yesterday,"  he  said,  "and  I 
know  not  how  long  she  stays.  If  she  go,  these  ladies  shall 

immediately  occupy  their  apartments;  if  not "  and  he 

shrugged  his  shoulders. 

A  carrying-chair  was  brought,  and  Mrs.  Lovel  was  car- 
ried up  stairs  to  the  one  room,  while  Mr.  Lovel  and  the 
courier  sallied  forth  on  an  expedition  to  all  the  other 
hotels  and  lodging-houses  in  the  town,  to  see  if  any  rooms 
could  be  hud. 

They  returned  in  triumph;  they  found  that  though  the 
Schweitzerhof  (of  which  every  village  in  German  Switzer- 
land possesses  one)  was  quite  full,  it  had  belonging  to  it 
a  ti'ly  little  chalet,  a  dependance  containing  five  rooms.  It 
was  now  occupied  by  a  German  princess  with  her  two 
daughters,  but  they  were  going  to  leave  on  the  following 
morning,  and  Andrew  had  joyfully  secured  it  all. 

For  this  one  night  Perdita  must  sleep  with  her  mother 
nml  the  maid,  and  two  beds  were  rolled  in  from  the  pas- 
sage; and  Andrew  could  find  a  room  for  himself  in  the 
Badhof,  a  little  inn  some  wav  off  in  the  town. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  think  that  the  present  state  of 
things  was  not  to  continue,  and  they  were  in  better 
spirits  than  they  had  ventured  to  think  possible  an  hour 
before. 

Nannie  bad  her  dinner  brought  up  to  her  room;  and 
Perdita  and  her  father  went  down  to  the  table  d'hote 
room. 

It  was  all  new  to  both  of  them,  and  they  were  much 
amused  by  the  crowd  of  people  seated  in  groups  round 
little  talies  eating  and  talking  ceaselessly.  The  courier 
mars-haled  them  to  a  table  which  they  were  to  share 
\\uth  two  ladies  and  three  very  magnificent  German  offi- 
cers, who  rose  at  their  approach  and  bowed  profoundly. 

Suddenly  Perdita  uttered  an  exclamation  of  pleasure. 

"Oh  father,  how  delightful!  a  familiar  face." 

And  there  at  a  round  table  in  a  corner  of  the  great  room, 
Andrew  saw  Lady  Armine  with  three  of  her  children,  and 
a  lady  whom  Dita  knew  to  be  the  governess.  They  had 
just  finished  their  supper  and  were  leaving  the  room. 


DITA.  117 

Dita  would  fain  have  run  after  them,  but  did  not  dare 
in  that  crowd;  but  she  was  in  high  spirits  at  having  al- 
ready found  companions  for  their  time  at  Badfeld. 

Mildred  Grethard  was  the  next  sister  to  Mabel;' she 
was  eighteen  years  old,  and  lately  come  out;  and  now  that 
the  eldest  daughter  was  married,  she  was  her  mother's 
constant  companion.  The  next  girl,  Mary,  was  suffering 
from  a  weakness  of  the  spine,  and  it  was  for  her  sake  that 
they  were  there. 

She  and  the  little  boy,  Dick,  were  the  only  ones  still  in 
the  schoolroom,  he  not  being  yet  old  enough  to  go  to 
school. 

The  next  morning  was  spent  by  the  Lovels  in  moving 
and  settling  in  the  chalet,  which  rejoiced  in  the  name  of 
Bellevue.  It  was  a  nice  little  house,  a  pretense  Swiss  cot- 
tage, with  a  large  veranda,  into  which  all  the  long  French 
windows  opened.  It  was  fixed,  as  it  were,  into  the  side 
of  the  mountain,  so  that  there  was  a  sweet  smell  of  fir- 
wood  round  about  it.  In  front,  great  crimson  oleanders 
grew  in  tubs,  and  were  in  full  flower. 

It  took  Mrs.  Lovel's  fancy  at  once;  she  had  never  ex- 
pected to  be  so  much  pleased  with  anything  out  of  Eng- 
land. Whether  it  was  the  smallness  of  it  that  gave  her 
the  impression  that  she  had  realized  the  real  dream  of 
her  life — a  beautiful  little  rural  cottage — or  whether  it 
was  only  the  rest  and  repose  after  the  crowded  and  noisy 
hotels  they  had  been  in,  but  she  seemed  to  be  thoroughly 
settled  and  happy  there  at  once,  to  Andrew's  great  joy. 

They  had  brought  all  sorts  of  pillows  and  air-cushions 
with  them,  and  Nannie  was  carried  out  to  a  sofa  under 
the  veranda,  where  she  could  lie  among  the  oleanders,  and 
see  through  the  trees  all  the  gayly-dressed  people  walking 
in  the  garden  or  listening  to  the  never-ceasing  band. 

There  was  a  spare  room  kept  in  the  chalet  for  Jaques, 
in  case  he  shrfhld  join  them  later. 

In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Lovel  and  Dita  found  out  the 
rooms  which  Lady  Armine  inhabited,  and  went  to  call  on 
her.  A  waiter  carried  their  cards  in  to  No.  95,  but  before 
the  answer  came,  Mildred  came  running  out  to  beg  them 
to  come  in.  The  girls  were  quite  enchanted  to  see  Per- 
dita. 

Whether  Lady  Armine  was  as  enclmnted  to  see  Andrew 
was  not  quite  so  certain,  but  she  nad  a  great  respect 


118  DITA. 

for  him,  and  a  most  cordial  liking  for  his  wife,  and  she 
greeted  both  father  and  daughter  with  warm  kindness. 

Perdita  was  pressed  to  spend  as  much  time  as  she  couM 
spare  with  the  girls,  and  it  was  insisted  on  that  she  should 
share  their  German  master,  and  come  and  play  whenever 
she  liked  upon  the  piano,  which  they  had  secured  by  a 
rare  piece  of  good  fortune. 

Then  Lady  Armine  put  on  her  bonnet  and  went  across 
the  garden  with  Andrew  to  see  Mrs.  Lovel,  and  the  three 
girls  sat  down  to  have  a  chat  together. 

"  And  how  are  you,  Mary?"  said  Perdita;  "how  many 
baths  have  you  had?" 

"  Only  three,  and  they  are  very  pleasant.  They  are 
beautiful  white  baths,  and  the  water  is  blue,  and  as  clear 
as  crystal." 

"  And  the  woman  next  door,"  shouted  Dick,  who  could 
never  control  his  voice,  *"'  sings  all  the  time  at  the  top  of 
her  voice — a  sort  of  howl  without  any  air  in  it;  and  Mary 
says  it  is  exactly  like  the  banshee." 

"  Not  so  loud,  Dick,  please;  but  it  is  quite  true,  it  is  a 
most  horrible  sound,  for  it  never  goes  with  the  band;  and 
with  the  constant  rush  of  water  into  the  baths,  it  has  a 
most  eerie  effect." 

"Jones  told  Miss  Benton,"  pursued  Dick,  "that  the 
woman's  maid's  name  is  Streichhoch,  pronounced  like  a 
hiccough." 

"  My  dear  iTick!" 

"And  Streichhoch  told  Jones  that  her  lady  (that's  the 
Banshee)  is  always  afraid  of  having  a  fit  in  her  bath,  and 
if  she  stops  singing  for  one  moment  she  is  to  run  in  with 
a  jug  of  cold  water." 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  there  was  water  enough 
already,"  said  Dita,  laughing.  "  What  is  this  singing 
lady  like  on  terra  firrnd?" 

"She  is  beautiful,"  said  Dick,  gravely. 

"  She  has  golden  hair,  and  the  pinkest  cheeks,  and  the 
blackest  eyebrows  conceivable,"  said  Mildred,  "  and  she 
is  Dick's  ideal  of  female  beauty." 

"Are  there  any  more  funny  people  here?"  asked 
Perdita. 

"  There  is  an  Italian  lady  who  sits  with  her  legs 
crossed,  smoking  cigarettes,  whom  we  often  watch.  And, 
by  the  bye,  a  friend  of  yours  has  been  here;  she  passed 


DITA.  119 

through  Badfeld  last  week,  on  her  way  to  the  Italian 
lakes." 

"  Who  is  that?" 

"  Lady  Norton;  she  has  a  Miss  Gray  with  her,  a  niece 
whom  she  is  very  fond  of,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  Sir 
Edwai'd  at  Como.  They  mean  to  linger  there  until  it  is 
cool  enough  for  traveling  home.  He  has  been  climbing 
all  the  worst  mountains  in  Switzerland." 

"  He  is  fond  of  Alpine  climbing,"  said  Dita,  her  heart 
beating  quickly. 

"  Yes;  and  Lady  Norton  says  that  even  the  guides  are 
astonished  at  his  powers." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  eagle?"  interrupted  Dick. 

"  No;  what  eagle?" 

"It  comes  from  the  mountains,"  answered  Mildred; 
"and  has  been  seen  several  times  in  the  valley." 

"Such  a  fine  fellow!"  cried  Dick;  "immense!  and  Sir 
Edward  told  Lady  Norton  that  he  saw  him " 

"No,  Dick,  not  that  eagle — an  eagle." 

"  Swoop  down  and  carry  off  a  very  fat  little  marmot  in 
its  mouth — its  claws,  I  mean.  I  believe  they  feel  about 
and  pick  out  the  fattest." 

"  Then  they  certainly  will  not  catch  you,"  said  Per- 
dita,  making  a  dash  at  the  little  blue  knickerbockers, 
which  skillfully  wriggled  out  of  reach. 

"  Jack  comes  to-morrow,"  shouted  Dick,  apropos  de 
fiottes. 

"  Mr.  Lee  Aston,  you  most  impertinent  little  monkey !" 
cried  Mildred. 

"Jack — I  always  call  him  Jack,"  said  Dick.  "It  will 
be  great  fun  when  he  comes." 

"What  can  he  becoming  here  for?"  said  Dita,  won- 
deringly. 

"  He  is  very  rheumatic,  and  has  a  bone  in  his  back," 
said  Dick. 

"My  dear  boy!" 

"  He  told  me  so  himself;  he  said  it  was  a  dreadful 
bone  a  whole  yard  long,"  and  Dick's  face  looked  quite  in 
earnest. 

"I  do  not  know  why  he  is  coming,"  said  Mildred,  her 
protty  cheeks  more  pink  than  usual. 

"  We  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  in  London,  and  when  we 


120  DITA. 

came  abroad  he  went  to  Dnnmonaigh  to  see  Mabel  and 
Angus,  and  he  promised  to  come  out  here  and  tell  us  all 
about  them  afterward." 

A  pleasant  idea  came  into  Perdita's  mind,  and  smiling 
herself,  she  caught  a  corresponding  smile  on  Mary's  face. 

"  I  am  very  glad  he  is  coming,"  she  said,  gayly. 

"  He  said  the  waters  would  melt  the  bone  if  they  were 
hot  enough,"  said  Dick.  "  I  asked  him  if  it  would  hurt, 
and  he  said  awfully." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Dita,  laughing. 

"  You  have  heard  of  his  new  fortune,  have  you  not?" 
said  Mary. 

"No,  but  I  shall  be  delighted  at  any  good  fortune 
coming  to  any  of  those  dear  people." 

"His  old  aunt,  Miss  Ash  burn,  has  made  him  her  heir, 
and  now  gives  him  a  very  good  allowance;  is  it  not  nice?" 

"  I  am  so  glad!  I  always  thought  that  she  was  a  kind 
old  lady,  and  very  fond  of  Jack  Lee  Aston." 

"  They  are  all  delighted,"  said  Mildred.  "  For  though 
he  is  quite  clever  enough  to  make  his  own  way,  of  course 
it  would  have  been  slow  work." 

"  Jack  will  be  able  to  tell  us  about  Mabel's  big  dog," 
said  Dick,  finding  his  friend's  prospects  a  very  dull  topic 
of  conversation. 

"  Has  Mabel  a  big  dog?"  said  Perdita. 

"  Yes,  almost  as  big  as  a  little  pony.  Lady  Grisel  got 
it  for  her  because  she  wanted  one;  she  gets  her  everything 
she  wants." 

"  That  is  very  nice  for  her." 

"She's  not  nice  now,"  said  Dick,  discontentedly;  "she 
always  used  to  be  so  jolly,  but  she's  quite  spoilt;  and 
when  mamma  and  Milly  and  I  went  there,  they  kept 
telling  me  to  run  away  just  as  if  I  was  one  of  the  babies." 

"Oh,  Dick,  Dick,  nonsense!"  cried  Mildred. 

"  It's  not  nonsense,"  cried  he,  indignantly;  "and  she 
never  laughs  and  plays  now  as  we  used " 

"Tell  me,  is  not  Dunmonaigh  quite  beautiful?"  asked 
Perdita,  anxious  to  stop  Dick's  confidences. 

"Yes,  lovely!  quite  beautiful!"  said  Mary,  hastily; 
"  Mamma  and  Mildred  were  there  for  nearly  a  fortnight 
before  they  went  to  London." 

"Arid  Mabel  was  quite  well  and  flourishing,  I  hope?" 


DITA.  12 L 

"Yes,  she  was  well,"  said  Mildred;  and  she  walked  to 
the  piano  to  hide  that  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  She 
could  still  feel  the  clasp  of  her  sister's  arms  tight  round 
her  neck,  and  hear  her  passionate  cry  of  "  Oh,  how  can 
I  let  yon  go,  mother!  how  can  I  let  you  leave  me!" — when 
poor  Mabel's  little  attempts  at  concealment  all  broke 
down,  and  they  saw  too  plainly  that  she  was  not  happy. 

"  Quick,  quick,  Milly,  Miss  Lovel!"  shouted  Dick, 
rushing  to  the  window. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Perdita,  running  after  him. 

"  Look!  there  is  the  Banshee  going  to  the  fountain — 
do  look!" 

Across  the  gravel-walk  swept  a  magnificently-dressed 
lady,  in  a  cloud  of  white  muslin  and  Mali  nee  lace,  with 
masses  of  golden  hair,  and  the  black  eyebrows  Mildred  had 
described. 

"  A  most  substantial  Banshee,"  said  Perdita,  laughing, 
for  the  lady  was  not  ethereal. 

"  I  know  all  about  her,"  said  Dick,  eagerly.  "  She  is 
very  grand  outside,  and  dreadfully  stingy;  she  only 
gives " 

"Dick,"  said  Mary,  shaking  her  head,  "you  know 
you  ought  not  to  listen  to  silly  gossip." 

"Dick,  Dick,  always  Dick!"  cried  the  incorrigible  boy; 
"  well,  I  won't  say  a  word,  but  next  time  I  see  her,  I'll 
sing— 

'  Here  a  penny,  there  a  penny,  everywhere  a  penny.'" 

Dick  had  been  with  his  sister  to  see  "The  Happy  Land," 
and  had  adopted  its  songs;  now  he  was  dancing  all  about 
the  room  singing — 

"  With  a  little  penny  here,  and  a  little  penny  there f 
Here  a  penny,  there  a  penny,  everywhere  a  penny!" 

and  in  the  midst  of  his  song,  Miss  Bentou  came  in  and 
carried  him  off  for  a  walk 

Perdita  looked  at  her  watch,  and  finding  that  time  had 
passed  quicker  than  she  could  have  believed  possible,  hur- 
ried back  to  the  chalet. 

She  found  Lady  Armine  still  sitting  with  Mrs.  Lovel, 
and  the  former  told  her  that  she  had  been  making  all 
sorts  of  arrangements  for  her  to  spend  a  great  deal  of  timo 


122  DITA. 

with  Mildred  and  Mary,  and  that  she  thought  that  to- 
gether they  ought  to  enjoy  Badfeld  very  much.  Lady 
Armine  made  an  appointment  to  call  on  Mrs.  Lovel  the 
next  day  about  one  o'clock,  when  poor  Xannie  \vas  always 
d  >\vn  and  at  her  best;  and  then  she  went  away,  leaving  a 
general  impression  of  kindnesa  and  warmth  behind  her 
that  was  veiy  pleasant. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IN  Dunmonaigh  Castle  was  one  very  quaint  and  charm* 
ing  room  which  had  been  carefully  prepared  by  Lady 
Grisel  for  Mabel's  use.  It  was  square,  and  had  two  re- 
cesses in  round  turrets  at  one  end,  their  narrow  windows 
looking  over  the  loveliest  views  of  the  country  round — 
the  south  windows  over  the  loch,  the  western  ones  toward 
beautiful  Benichon  and  its  range  of  purple  hills. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  pale-green  silk,  old  oriental 
plates  upon  them,  and  great  oriental  china  jars  were  in 
the  corners,  full  of  pot-pourri,  which  gave  out  an  old- 
fashioned  aromatic  smell. 

Lady  Grisel  herself  was  wont  always  to  occupy  a  high- 
backed  chair,  but  she  had  supplied  Mabel's  rooms  with 
luxurious  furniture,  all  covered  with  the  same  fine  old 
silk,  of  which  there  had  been  rolls  lying  by  in  the  huge 
lumber-rooms  up  stairs. 

In  this  room  Lady  Grisel  and  Mabel  were  alone  one 
evening — Angus  had  gone  to  Edinburgh  on  business,  and 
would  not  return  that  night.  Lady  Grisel  had  ordered 
one  of  the  old  boxes  to  be  brought  down  from  the  lum- 
ber-room to  amuse  Mabel;  they  were  full  of  treasures 
forgotten  and  thrown  aside,  but  well  worth  a  rummage. 

They  watted  till  the  lights  should  be  brought;  and 
Mabel  sat  in  the  turret  with  her  elbow  on  the  window- 
sill,  and  her  eyes  on  the  loch,  so  still  and  dark  in  the 
waning  light. 

Lady  Grisel  sat  half  leaning  back  in  her  stiff  chair, 
with  her  hands  lightly  clasped  over  the  bunch  of  keys  in 
her  lap. 

"  Mabel,"  she  said,  gently,  "  shall  we  ring  for  the  cau- 
dles to  be  lighted  r 


DITA.  2 

"Not  yet;  it  is  so  pleasant  in  this  half  light." 

"  You  are  too  young  to  love  the  gloaming,  child,"  said 
Lady  Grisel,  sadly.  "  When  I  was  your  age,  I  could  not 
bear  that  hour — always  daylight  and  brilliant  lamplight  for 
me." 

"  There  is  a  little  young  moon,"  said  Mabel;  "and  it 
looks  so  pretty  on  the  deep  water." 

A  sound  in  her  daughter-in-law's  yoice  made  Lady 
Grisel  rise  and  approach  her. 

"  Mabel!  crying  agai-n;  my  poor  child!" 

There  was  a  look  almost  of  despair  in  Lady  Grisel's 
face,  as  Mabel  rose,  and  coming  to  her,  sat  down  on  the 
ground,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  lap,  gave  way  to  a 
passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 

"Tell  me,  darling,  tell  me  what  ails  you?  Oh,  Mabel, 
why  cannot  we  make  you  happy?" 

"  It  is  very  wrong;  please  forgive  me." 

"Forgive  you,  my  poor  child!  it  is  I  that  should  ask 
for  forgiveness.  Why  did  you  ever  come  from  your  happy 
home  to  this  house?  Has  Angus  been  unkind  to  you 
again?" 

"  It  is  very  silly,"  said  Mabel,  trying  to  brush  away  her 
tears;  "  but  when  I  wanted  to  kiss  him  and  say  good-by, 
he  pushed  me  away  and  said,  '  There,  that  will  do.'  He 
does  not  love  me;  he  is  so  hard.  Oh!  I  ought  not  to  say 
all  this." 

-  "  And  you,"  murmured  Lady  Grisel,  fondly,  "you  have 
been  so  much  coaxed  and  petted  all  your  life,  poor  wee 
thing!" 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  have  married  me  if  he  had 
not  loved  me?"  said  poor  Mabel.  "Ah!  he  seems  to  be 
made  of  stone!" 

'•My  poor  child,"  said  his  mother,  "Angus  is  not 
young  like  you:  he  has  grown  accustomed  to  a  cold,  calm 
life.  I  never  have  caressed  him  as  you  young  things  do 
— he  never  could  bear  caressing  even  as  a  child.  Do  not 
expect  him  to  come  into  your  ways  at  once:  be  patient, 
and  try  to  win  him;  and  oh,  do  not  let  your  own  warm 
little  heart  grow  cold !" 

"He  speaks  so  bitterly  to  me,"  faltered  Mabel. 

"I  know — I  know  it  too  well." 

"Mamma  told  me  to  think  only  of  his  happiness,  and 
in  doing  that,  I  should  forget  that  I  am  not  happy  my 


124  DITA. 

self:  and  I  have  tried — oh,  believe  me,  I  have  tried  hard; 
but  I  seem  to  have  no  power  to  affect  his  happiness  one 
way  or  another.  I  cannot  make  him  smile  by  being  gay, 
or  sad  by  crying — it  is  cold,  calm  indifference,  and  it 
wounds  me,  it  hurts  me  so." 

"  I  believe,  Mabel,  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  has 
warm,  strong  affections,  but,  as  with  all  men  who  are  re- 
served, they  are  hidden." 

"  Why,  then,  lias  he  trained  his  whole  life  down  to  a 
calm,  dead,  monotonous  level — day  after  day  the  same 
still  smile,  except  when  he  is  angry?  Oh,  I  cannot  get 
Jock's  howls  out  of  my  ears  since  he  beat  him  yesterday! 
But,  to-day,  again,  the  same  incessant  activity,  as  though 
he  could  not  sit  down  for  one  moment  to  think,  or  dream, 
or  talk  to  me." 

Lady  Grisel  passed  her  hand  over  her  brow, — Mabel 
went  on — 

"I  suppose  I  shall  tone  down  to  it;  sometimes  I  feel 
already  that  I  begin  to  fossilize,  but  not  with  you." 

She  hid  her  face  again:  Lady  Grisel  softly  stroked  her 
hair. 

"  My  child,"  she  said,  "I  have  been  thinking  of  apian 
winch  I  want  you  to  consider  well:  perhaps  it  would  break 
through  Angns's  reserve  if  you  were  more  thrown  upon 
him — if  I  were  to  leave  you." 

Mabel  started  tip  with  almost  a  scream — "Oh  no,  no! 
do  not  leave  me;  what  should  I  do  without  you?  Prom- 
ise, promise  you  will  not  leave  me — I  will  not  let  you  move 
till  you  promise!" 

Lady  Grisel  was  startled  by  her  vehemence — so  startled, 
that  she  clasped  the  poor  child  in  her  arms,  and  could 
only  silence  her  entreaties  by  making  the  required,  promise. 

"  You  are  foolish,  Mabel,"  she  said  lovingly. 

"Ah!  what  could  I  do  without  you?  You  have 
frightened  me  so  much!"  and  in  truth  she  looked  pale 
and  tremulous. 

Lady  Grisel  made  her  lie  down  on  the  sofa,  and  rang 
for  lights,  saying,  "Now  darling,  we  must  have  no  more 
sad  talks;  give  me  a  kiss,  and  dry  your  eyes,  and  I  will 
open  this  big  box — I  fancy  there  is  some  old  lace  in  this 
one." 

Mabel  struggled  hard  for  composure,  and  succeeded  by 
the  time  the  servants  came. 


DITA.  125 

There  were  old  silver  sconces  on  the  walls,  and  the  wax 
candles  in  them  shed  a  pretty  soft  light  over  the  room. 

Lady  Grisel  looked  at  her  daughter-in-law:  it  was 
strange  how  this  gentle  dependent  girl  had  brought  out 
all  the  unknown  depths  of  tenderness  in.  her  heart.  She 
who  had  been  all  her  life  reserved  and  dignified,  now 
coaxed  and  petted  Mabel,  with  an  instinctive  feeling  that, 
if  the  warmth  of  demonstrative  love  was  altogether  with- 
drawn from  her,  she  would  pine  away  like  a  flower  for 
want  of  sun. 

Lady  Grisel  opened  the  box.  There  was  a  bundle  first 
of  old  brocade,  a  canary-colored  suit  with  a  waistcoat  em- 
broidered in  silver;  then  a  gown,  the  waist  some  four 
inches  long;  of  pink  satin,  innumerable  odds  and  ends; 
then  a  magnificent  brocaded  train,  in  which  the  late  laird's 
grandmother  had  been  presented  to  Prince  Charles  at 
Holy  rood. 

Mabel  grew  quite  excited  and  interested  over  all  these 
treasures. 

Then  came  a  rouge-spot,  and  an  ivory  box  of  mouches, 
and  then  an  old  jewel-case  of  faded  red  morocco,  which 
Lady  Grisel  put  into  Mabel's  lap.  In  the  first  tray  was  a 
great  parure  of  amethysts,  a  high  comb  sparkling  with  tiny 
brilliants  which  adorned  the  setting. 

"  Tkis  is  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Mabel.  "And  so  is 
this  great  bracelet  of  the  trois  ors.  What  arms  our  an- 
cestors must  have  had!"  And  she  slipped  the  bracelet  off 
and  on  her  arms. 

"I  think  the  lace  is  underneath,"  said  Lady  Grisel; 
and  raising  the  tray,  Mabel  found  a  parcel  of  fine  old  lace. 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  make  you  as  pretty  as  a  queen  when 
you  go  to  Court  next  year,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  smiling. 
"  I  have  some  diamonds  you  have  never  seen,  and  they 
shall  all  be  reset  for  you." 

"Oh,  might  I  see  them?"  asked  Mabel,  eagerly. 

"When  you  go  to  bed,  you  shall  come  to  my  room  and 
see  them.  Now  let  us  see  if  there  is  anything  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  box." 

They  found  a  number  of  miniatures  carefully  wrapped  in 
paper.  Lady  Grisel  took  them  up  with  a  sigh.  "I  did 
not  know  that  these  were  here,"  she  said;  "I  am  very 
glad  k)  have  found  them  again." 

Mabel  poured  them  into  her  lap. 


126  DITA. 

"  Who  is  this?"  she  said,  holding  out  one  of  them — a 
badly- painted  portrait  of  a  boy  of  fourteen. 

"That  is  my  eldest  son,  poor  E\van,"  said  Lady  Grisel, 
softly.  "His  father  did  not  think  it  good,  and  put  it 
away." 

"  He  must  have  been  very  handsome.  Who  is  it  this 
reminds  me  of  so  much?  I  cannot  remember." 

"  He  was  very  handsome:  he  was  six  feet  two  and  a  half 
in  height,  and  he  was  wonderfully  strong." 

"  Was  he  like  Angus?" 

"  No,  not  at  all;  no  one  could  have  told  that  they  were 
brothers.  Ewan  was  a  thorough  Macmonach." 

"And  he  was  never  married,"  said  Mabel,  thoughtfully. 
Lady  Grisel  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"No,"  she  said,  "he  was  never  married." 

"  Was  there  not  some  one  whom  he  wished  to  marry?'1 
asked  Mabel.  "  1  asked  Angus  once,  but  he  was  very 
angry." 

"  Yes,  there  was  some  one." 

"Oh,  do  tell  me  about  her!  I  seem  to  know  so  little 
about  you  all;  you  do  not  mind,  do  you?"  she  said, 
timidly. 

"It  is  a  painful  story,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  "but  it  is 
right  that  you  should  know  it.  On  Ewan's  deathbed, 
this  young  girl  whom  he  loved  (her  name  was  Assunta  de* 
Caroli)  appeared  and  claimed  to  be  his  wife. — she  had  her 
little  child  with  her." 

Mabel  looked  at  Lady  Grisel  wonderingly.  "  And  was 
she  not  his  wife?"  she  said. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  slowly,  "or  Dunmonaigh 
would  not  have  belonged  to  Angus.  After  the  funeral 
she  brought  her  papers  with  her,  which  had  been  given 
to  her  by  my  son,  purporting  to  be  her  marriage-lines 
and  the  baptismal  register  of  the  child.  They  were 
opened  before  witnesses,  and  proved  to  be  blank  papers." 

"Oh,  poor,  poor  girl!" 

"  He  must  have  deceived  her  by  a  mock  marriage," 
said  Lady  Grisel,  with  an  effort.  "I  shall  never  get  over 
the  pain  of  that  discovery." 

"  And  where  is  she  now?" 

"Child,  you  forget  how  young  yon  are;  all  this  was 
eighteen  years  ago,  and  she  died  six  mouths  after  Ewan." 


DITA.  127 

"  She  died  of  a  broken  heart?" 

"  I  think  so.  She  refused  all  help,  and  at  last  when 
actual  want  was  near,  her  appeal  came  too  late.  Master 
Malcolm  sought  her  out,  followed  her  to  London,  and 
found  her  in  a  workhouse  dead." 

"  What  a  piteous  story!" 

"Put  back  the  miniature,  Mabel;  telling  that  story,  I 
cannot  look  at  it." 

"  What  became  of  the  poor  little  child?" 

"  It  was  adopted  by  a  very  good  kind  couple  who  had 
no  children  of  their  own,  but  who  loved  poor  little  Mar- 
garet most  dearly.  She  will,  please  God,  have  a  happier 
fate  than  her  mother.  They  changed  their  names,  and 
we  have  quite  lost  sight  of  them  for  many  years, — put  it 
away,  dear." 

Mabel  still  held  it  in  her   hand.     "I  see  now!"  she 
eried,  suddenly. 
•  What  is  it?" 

'It  is  quite  an  extraordinary  likeness." 
'To  whom?" 

'  Perdita  Lovel,  a  friend  of  mine." 
'  What  a  curious  name!"  said  Lady  Q-risel. 
'  Her  father  is  quite  a  character,  and  has  a  mania  for 
Shakespeare.      The  likeness  is  quite  odd  —  exactly  the 
same  brow  and  short  upper  lip,  and  that  curl  of  the  lips, 
half  proud,  half  sweet;  but  there  the  likeness  ends.    Dita 
is  fairer,  and  her  eyes  such  a  dark  brown,  that,  even  in 
spite  of  her  fairness,  she  has  been  taken  for  an  Italian. 

Lady  Grisel  started.  "  Indeed!"  she  said.  "And  what 
are  the  parents'  names?  Perdita  is  such  an  unusual 
name." 

"Lovel:  they  are  quite  nouveaux  riches;  but  Dita  is 
not  the  least  like  that." 

"  I  wonder,"  began  Lady  Grisel,  but  checked  herself. 
"Is  she  a  great  friend  of  yours?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  she  is  so  beautiful  and  charming.  They  are  at 
Bad  fold  now,  with  mamma  and  Mildred,  and  Mary  and 
Dick,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

They  put  back  the  miniature  in  its  place,  and  by  the 
time  they  had  examined  the  whole  contents  of  the  box  it 
was  eleven  o'clock,  and  time  to  go  up  stairs. 

They  went  into  Lady  Grisel's  room  that  she  might  ful- 
fill her  promise  of  showing  Mabel  tne  diamonds, 


128  DITA. 

"Which  is  the  room  in  which  poor  Ewan  died?"  said 
Mabel,  shuddering. 

"Never  mind,  child;  if  you  thought  of  such  things, 
every  room  in  every  old  house  would  be  haunted  by  the 
past.  Look  here." 

She  opened  the  door  of  the  old  japanned  cabinet,  and 
drew  out  the  drawers. 

"These  are  fine  stones,"  she  said,  putting  a  riviere 
into  Mabel's  hands,  "  but  all  these  others  want  resetting;" 
and  she  showed  her  a  number  of  old-fashioned  jewels, 
combs,  and  long  earrings,  aud  diamond  flowers  trem- 
bling on  gold  wires. 

"And  you  will  really  have  them  set  for  me?"  asked 
Mabel,  with  childish  pleasure. 

"Yes,  we  will  make  designs  for  them  ourselves,  if  you 
like.  Now  go  to  bed,  my  child.  Good  night.  God  bless 
and  keep  you." 

And  Mabel  went  away. 

About  hc°.lf  an  hour  later  came  a  timid  little  knock  at 
the  door,  and  Mabel,  as  white  as  her  white  robes,  come  in. 
"Oh,  may  I  sleep  with  you?"  said  she,  entreatingly;  "  I 
cannot  sleep  alone — I  never  have  slept  alone  in  all  my  life. 
Milly  was  always  there,  for  I  am  so  silly  and  frightened: 
she  was  much  braver." 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Lady  Grisel;  "yes,  you  shall 
sleep  with  me." 

"  I  cannot  help  fancying  mine  might  be  the  room  where 
Ewan  died,"  said  Mabel,  shivering,  "  and  that  his  wife 
might  come  in  and  upbraid  him  there." 

Mabel  was  soon  asleep,  but  Lady  Grisel  lay  long  awake, 
thinking  sadly.  She  felt  as  a  gardener  might  feel  who 
had  some  strange  exotic  intrusted  to  his  care,  and  no 
neansof  warming  and  fostering  it.  She  looked  down  on 
Mabel's  sleeping  face,  with  her  soft  brown  hair  tossed 
round  it,  and  she  heard  her  murmur  in  her  sleep,  "  Yes, 
mamma,  Milly  and  I  always  do."  lu  her  dreams  she  was 
a  child  again. 

"  Poor  wee  thing,  she  is  only  a  child  now — a  little  soft 
young  thing,"  she  said  to  herself;  "how  could  her  mother 
have  sent  her  away  so  soon?" 

Far  away  in  Badfeld,  Lady  Armine  was  thinking  the 
game  thing:  that  she  had  been  wrong  in  allowing  Mabel 


D1TA.  129 

to  leave  her  so  soon;  and  that  whatever  Lord  Armine 
might  urge  about  the  ten  children,  the  expensive  eldest 
son,  and  the  excellence  of  a  match,  should  not  induce  her 
to  part  with  Mildred  so  soon.  But  Thomme  propose,  et 
Dieu  dispose.  Jack  Lee  Aston  had  arrived  at  Badfeld, 
and,  after  all,  Mildred  was  far  older  and  more  developed 
in  mind  than  her  heart's  darling  Mabel. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

JACK  LEE  ASTON  tapped  at  one  of  the  windows  of  the 
Bellevue  chalet,  and  begged  for  admittance.  Mrs.  Lovel 
was  just  making  preparations  to  move,  and  Jack  lent  a 
strong  arm  to  help  to  wheel  her  out  into  her  customary 
place  in  the  veranda. 

"  You  have  come  very  early  to-day,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"Dita  has  not  come  back  from  her  German  lesson  at 
No.  95." 

"  I  wanted  to  know  whether  )rou  would  take  tickets  for 
the  grand  concert  to-night  iii  the  Kurhaus  of  the 
Sch  \veitzerhof." 

"  I  had  not  heard  of  it;  is  it  to  be  good?" 

"If  half  a  yard  of  orange-colored  programme  signifies 
anything,  it  will  be  grand,"  he  answered.  "I  wish  you 
could  go  yourself,"  he  said,  with  kind  eagerness.  "  We 
can  make  it  quite  easy  for  you — we  can  have  your  sofa 
taken  there." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  holding 
out  her  hand;   "  but  now  I  care  for  nothing  but  rest — 
;;g  peacefully  down  the  river  of  life." 

"This  place  will  quite  set  you  up  again,  I  hope,"  he 
said.  She  gently  shook  her  head. 

"  Have  you  come  about  the  concert?"  said  Andrew, 
corning  in.  "I  have  sent  my  courier  to  take  places  for 
ourselves,  so,  if  you  are  all  going  we  had  better  try  to  sit 
together.  Ho\v  hot  it  is!"  he  said,  wiping  his  brow. 

.\\vfullyhot.  I  got  a  note  from  Lady  Norton  this 
morning,  asking  me  to  go  over  to  Como,  but  I  can't  stand 
the  heat.  If  it  was  not  so  pleasant  here.  I  would  be  off 
home  again  in  no  time.  Ah!  there  is  Dick,  couie  with  a 
message,  I  have  no  doubt." 


130  DITA. 

The  breathless  little  boy  ran  up. 

"  Mamma  wants  to  know  whether  Mrs.  Lovel  and  Dita 
are  going  to  the  concert?"  he  panted;  "and  oh,  Jack, 
there  is  a  snake  in  the  garden — such  a  beauty!  and  Miss 
Benton  won't  let  me  touch  it,  though  it  is  as  dead  as  dead, 
and  I  want  to  put  it  in  a  bottle  with  wine,  to  keep  it," — 
ke  stopped. 

"I  will  come  and  look  at  it,  my  boy,"  said  Jack.  "  So 
you  will  not  come  yourself,  Mrs.  Lovel?  If  you  only  knew 
how  easy  it  would  be." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,  thank  you  all  the  same  for  your 
kind  thought.  I  lie  out  here  quite  late  these  warm  nights, 
and  you  shall  all  come  and  tell  me  about  it  afterward." 

"Mamma  said  I  was  to  tell  you  that  she  is  coming  to 
see  you  in  half  an  hour,"  said  Dick. 

"Very  well;  now  I  won't  keep  you  from  the  snake  any 
more."  she  said,  smiling. 

Jack  and  the  child  went  off  to  the  spot  where  a  poor 
snake  had  been  killed.  It  was  a  yard  long,  bright  green 
and  white,  and  about  the  thickness  of  a  good-sized  walk- 
ing-stick. Jack  thought  him  far  too  much  injured  for 
preservation;  and  they  walked  on  to  the  hotel  to  see  if 
the  German  lesson  was  not  at  an  end. 

"  Do  you  see  that  little  beast?"  said  Dick,  pointing  to  a 
fairy-like  little  girl  about  his  own  age,  exquisitely  dressed, 
with  a  tight  little  waist  and  flowing  sash.  "'Would  you 
believe  it,  she  is  the  most  cruel  little  wretch  going.  I 
have  watched  her  for  half  an  hour  together  catching  one 
butterfly  after  another,  crunching  them  all  up  in  her  horrid 
little  hands;  and  one  day  she  caught  one»of  those  great 
grasshoppers  that  come  bouncing  in  at  night,  and  she  and 
her  French  nurse  stuck  a  pin  through  it,  and  there  was 
she,  rushing  about  with  it  wriggling  on  a  card;  but  I  will 
punish  her  yet.  I  got  one  of  mamma's  long  bonnet-pins 
and  a  newspaper  yesterday,  and  ran  after  her  and  told  her 
I  was  going  to  pin  her  down  for  a  little  time,  but  she 
shrieked  so  frightfully  that  I  was  obliged  to  let  her  go. 
There,  she  sees  me!"  Dick  threw  np  his  arms  and  shouted 
"  Icli  komme  !"  and  the  child  fled  with  a  shrill  shriek. 

At  the  sound  Lady  Armine,  who  had  just  appeared  at 
the  door,  hurried  toward  them. 

"  Dick,  you  are  very  naughty.  I  will  not  hare'  that 
child  frightened.  Fancy!"  she  said,  turning  to  Jack,  "I 


DITA.  131 

had  a  letter  from  her  mother  yesterday,  saying  that  she 
entreated  me  to  control  'Monsieur  monfils,'  for  that  her 
little  girl  had  had  an  ' attaque  de  nerfs'  yesterday  from 
something  he  had  said  to  her.  Run  in,  Dick,  and  tell 
your  sisters  to  make  haste." 

"  Are  they  going  out  walking  now?" 

"  Yes;  it  is  very  hot,  but  they  are  going  through  the 
trees  up  to  that  little  chalet  to  sketch;  it  is  sheltered  there 
even  at;  mid -day." 

"May  I  go  with  them?"  he  said,  coaxingly. 

She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then  smiled. 

"  Ought  I  lee  you  go  with  them?"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  you  have  heard  from  Lord  Armine?"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  see  you  have;  he  forbid  me  to  speak  to  you 
till  he  had  written  to  you  himself." 

"  Yes,  I  have  heard  from  him,"  she  said,  witli  an  irre- 
pressible sigh;  "  so  instead  of  going  with  the  girls,  I  want 
you  to  come  and  have  a  talk  with  me." 

Jack's  face  beamed  with  delight. 

"How  kind  you  are!"  he  exclaimed. 

"There  they  are!  run  and  tell  them  that  we  will  come 
and  see  how  they  get  on  with  their  sketches  by-and-by. 
Please,  Miss  Ben  too,"  she  continued,  "do  not  let  Mary 
walk  too  fast.  1  suppose  you  have  an  air-cushion?  Yes, 
Dick,  you  may  carry  it.  Good-by." 

Then  Lady  Armine  took  Jack's  arm,  and  they  walked 
away  into  the  woods. 

Perdita,  instead  of  accompanying  the  sketching  party, 
brought  her  books  and  some  work  and  sat  in  the  veranda 
with  Mrs.  Lovel.  She  looked  very  pale  and  thoughtful 
and  slowly  drew  her  needle  in  and  out. 

"  My  little  silent  mouse,"  said  Mrs.  Lovel,  gently, 
"  what  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"I  w;)s  thinking  of  a  very  odd  letter  I  have  had  this 
morning  from  Sir  Edward  Norton.  I  think  it  cannot 
really  be  meant  for  me." 

"  What  an  odd  thing!  let  me  hear  what  he  says,  dear." 

"I  will  read  it  to  you,"  said  Dita,  half-laughing  as  she 
unfolded  it.  *'  See,  there  is  the  address  as  clear  as  it  can 
be — '  Bellevne,  Schweitzerhof,  Badfeld,  Suisse;'  there  is 
no  mistake  about  that — and  this  is  the  letter."  She 
read — 


132  DITA. 

"  MT  DEAR  FRIEITD, — Most  heartily  do  I  congratulate  you  on 
your  prospects  of  wealth  and  power.  I  rejoice  with  all  my  heart. 
She  is  an  old  trump.  I  have  still  the  '  'ammer,  'ammer,  ammer,' 
still  the  '  'ard  'iuh  road  '  we  spoke  of  long  ;igo;  and  when  that  en- 
trancing short  cut  appeared  1  found  the  leap  a  real  '  bullfinch,'  and 
my  pride  too  sorry  a  jade  to  rise  to  it.  I  am  better  mounted  now : 
and — a  truce  to  metaphor — I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  try  my  luck. 
My  dear  old  friend,  wish  me  God-speed  for  '  ily  va  de  ma  vie.' — 

"  Yours  ever, 

"E.  D.  NORTON." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  perfect  Greek  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Lovel, 
laughing.  "  How  very  funny!  He  must  have  been  care- 
less, and  put  it  into  the  wrong  envelope;  let  me  look  at 
it.  There  must  be  a  letter  to  you  in  somebody  else's 
pocket." 

The  color  flushed  into  Dita's  face. 

"Probably  some  messsage  from  Lady  Norton,"  said 
Mrs.  Lovel,  quietly.  "  She  said  that  she  had  rheumatism 
in  her  hand  last  time  I  saw  her,  and  it  may  have  made  it 
difficult  for  her  to  write." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Perdita. 

At  about  two  o'clock,  when  it  was  nearly  time  for  lunch  * 
eon,  the  oleanders  were  pushed  aside,  and  Jack  appeared 
in  the  veranda. 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Lovel,"  he  said. 
"I  have  a  letter  for  you  in  my  pocket,  it  came  directed 
to  me,  and  I  only  saw  the  first,  '  My  dear  Miss  Lovel,'  to 
show  me  the  mistake;  and  here  it  is." 

"Ah!  then  this  is  for  you,"  said  Perdita,  producing 
her  letter. 

"  Oh,  thanks;  how  stupid  of  Norton!"  and  glancing  at 

it,  he  said,  "I  suppose  you  read  it;  it  is  about a 

horse,"  and  he  blushed  as  vivid  a  blush  as  her  own;  they 
both  laughed  awkwardly. 

"  We  shall  meet  at  the  concert  to-night,"  said  Jack;  and 
raising  his  hat  he  disappeared — his  light  step,  his  shining 
blue  eyes  all  showed  that  his  suit  was  prospering. 

Little  did  Edward  Norton  imagine  the  fate  of  his  two 
letters  as  he  restlessly  rowed  about  on  the  beautiful  lake 
of  Oomo.  The  letter  to  Perdita  had  taken  him  hours  to 
write  and  rewrite;  that  to  Jack  had  been  dashed  off  in 
half  a  moment.  He  had  felt  a  need  of  sympathy  and 
knew  he  should  find  it  there.  In  his  mother  he  had 


DITA.  133 

found  none.  From  the  moment  of  his  telling  her  the 
true  history  of  Perdita's  birth,  she  and  his  uncle  hail  left 
no  stone  unturned  to  drive  her  from  his  thoughts.  For  a 
time  they  succeeded;  but  the  first  shock  of  the  announce- 
ment having  passed  off,  his  love  for  the  beautiful  orphan 
returned  tenfold.  He  would  throw  reason  to  the  winds: 
he  would  only  promise  to  wait  for  three  months  for  their 
Fakes;  after  that,  he  would  no  longer  be  controlled.  The 
three  months  expired,  and  the  letter  was  written.  He 
was  reading  it  over  for  the  last  time,  when  his  mother 
called  him;  they  were  waiting  for  him  to  go  out  with 
them.  The  letter  to  Jack  lay  open  still;  he  folded  both, 
put  them  in, — his  mother  called  again, — hastily  sealed 
them,  and  they  went.  Lady  Norton  wisely  determined  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  She  was  very  fond  of  Perdita,  and 
under  other  circumstances  nothing  could  have  delighted 
her  more;  but  Mr.  Norton  went  off  to  England  in  high 
dudgeon. 

"Eun  up  stairs  and  read  your  letter,  my  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Lovel,  tenderly;  "luncheon  is  never  punctual:"  and 
Dita  flew  away.  She  did  not  return  till  Mr.  Lovel  had 
come  in,  and  luncheon  was  ready. 

In  the  aftereoon  Nannie  went  out  for  the  short  drive  she 
was  still  able  to  take  with  her  husband;  and  Perdita,  in- 
stead of  joining  her  young  friends,  spent  the  whole  after- 
noon in  her  own  little  room.  She  was  not  alone  again 
with  her  mother  till  about  six  o'clock,  when  Andrew  always 
went  to  the  reading-room  to  look  at  the  papers.  Then 
Dita  nestled  up  to  her  sofa  and  said — 

;'I  want  you  to  read  the  letter,  mammie,  and  the  an- 
fcwer  I  have  written."  Siie  put  both  into  her  hands. 

"  You  have  considered  well,  and  asked  for  God's  help, 
darling,  have  you?" 

"  I  think  1  'have  done  right,"  she  answered,  with  u  littl« 
sob. 

Mrs.  Lovel  opened  the  letter  and  read  it: — 

"  MY  DEAR  Miss  LOVEL, — I  hardly  venture  to  address  you  with- 
out beginning  by  saying  that,  unless  circumstances  had  prevented 
me,  1  should  have  written  this  letter  long  ago.  You  must  have  seen 
during  that  most  precious  time  in  which  we  were  so  much  together, 
that  my  feelings  towaid  you  had  grown  far  beyond  the  bounds  of 
•warmest  friendship;  now,  though  months  have  passed  since  I  have 
seeu  you,  I  am  more  than  ever  convinced  that  the  happiness  of  my 


134  BIT  A. 

life  lies  in  your  hands,  and  entirely  depends  upon  your  acceptance 
or  rejection  of  my  suit.  Will  you  be  rny  wife,  and  make  me  the 
happiest  individual  on  God's  earth? — Yours  most  truly, 

"E.  D.  NORTON. 
"  My  address  will  be,  '  post  restante,  Cadenabbia.' " 

"  Before  you  read  my  answer,  mammie,"  said  Perdita, 
laying  her  hand  on  her  own  letter,  "  listen  to  me.  You 
know  that  the  circumstances  to  which  he  alludes  are  not 
circumstances  at  all,  but  feelings.  T  have  interpreted  his 
letter  to  Mr.  Lee  Aston  very  clearly,  and  I  know  his 
character  so  well,"  she  said,  the  tears  rising  to  her  eyes. 
"He  is  so  proud  that  he  will  find  it  difficult  to  realize 
that  I  can  be  as  proud  as  he  is." 

"Child,  child!  have  you  refused  him?" 

"  Yes,  mammie;"  and  Dita  hid  her  face. 

"  Darling,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing?  Dita,  do 
you  love  him?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do  love  him,  mammie,  and  he  loves  me — 
loves  me  so  much  that  he  would  make  what  he  deems  a 
very  great  sacrifice  for  me;  but  I  will  never*  marry  him — 
never,  never!"  she  eried,  with  increasing  vehemence. 
"  No  bar-sinister  shall  ever  disgrace  his  shield." 

"  My  dear,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Never  mind,  mammie,"  she  said,  smiling  drearily. 
"It  is  better  so;  I  could  not  leave  you,  and  you  cannot 
wisli  to  send  me  away.  Eead  my  letter,  mammie." 

Mrs.  Level  took  it  up,  sorely  troubled. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  EDWARD, — Forgive  me,  please  forgive  me  the 
pain  I  must  give  you.  I  cannot  be  your  wife.  Try  to  think  of  it 
no  more.  I  feel  most  deeply  that  you  love  me  so  much  that  you 
would  sacrifice  yourself  for  me.  I  do  not  accept  the  sacrifice.  I 
will  pray  for  you  that  you  may  forget,  PEHDITA." 

Mrs.  Lovel  lay  back  and  shut  her  eyes;  one  of  her  over- 
whelming attacks  of  palpitation  had  come  on.  Perdita, 
pale  and  dry-eyed,  attended  to  her,  administering  the 
usual  remedies.  When  she  had  somewhat  recovered  she 
bade  Dita  sit  by  her  again. 

"Darling,  you  have  made  up  your  mind?"  she  said, 
feebly. 

"  Yes,   quite,  quite,  mammie,"  said  Perdita,  wistfully. 


DITA.  135 

•'  I  have  never  asked  yon  before  what  was  my  mother's 
name?  and  where  did  you  see  her  first?" 

"I  found  her,  darling,  in  the  workhouse!" 

A  sharp  shiver  passed  through  the  girl's  frame. 

"She  had  become  so  very  poor,  and  you  were  so  young, 
she  thought  it  better  to  go  there.  Her  name  was  Assunta 
de'  Caroli;  she  told  me  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  an 
Italian,  but  she  spoke  English  like  an  Englishwoman;" 
she  stopped  breathless. 

"Assunta  de'  Caroli,"  repeated  Perdita,  still  with  her 
face  hidden;  "and  was  she like  a  lady?" 

"  Yes,  dearie — a  true,  well-born  lady.  She  had  large 
brown  eyes  that  shone  so  wistfully  in  her  white  wan  face; 
she  was  very  thin,  poor  little  thing,  but  I  could  see  she 
must  have  been  quite  beautiful." 

"  And,"  said  Dita,  hesitatingly,  "did  she  speak  of  my 
father?  Oh,  mammie,  do  you  know  his  name?" 

"  Darling,  must  you  know?  His  name  was  Ewau 
Macmonach." 

'•'  Macmonach!     Mammie,  mammie!" 

"  Yes,  dearest;  Angus  Macmonach's  elder  brother." 

"  Oh,  does  any  one  know?"  she  said,  shivering. 

"  No,  darling,  your  father  took  care  that  no  one  should 
ever  know;  perhaps  that  has  been  a  mistake,"  she  said 
softly  to  herself.  Perdita  was  sobbing  now,  and  clinging 
closely  to  her. 

"  She  gave  you  to  me  for  my  very  own,"  said  Nannie, 
tearfully — "  to  be  all  my  own;  and  she  smiled  and  thanked 
God  when  she  saw  you  in  iny  arms.  And  you  have  been 
happy,  darling,  have  you  not?" 

"  Mother!  my  life  has  been  one  long  joy." 

"  God  bless  you,  child,  for  saying  that;  I  will  tell  As- 
sunta — soon." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  little  party  of  English  made  their  way  to  the  room 
in  which  the  concert  was  to  be  held,  about  half-past  eight. 
They  had  to  cross  part  of  the  garden,  for  the  large  room 
of  the  Kurhaus  was  the  place  chosen  for  the  evening's 
Amusement. 


136  DITA. 

Lady  Armine  took  Dita's  arm,  and  began  asking  her 
kindly  about  Nannie,  whom  she  had  thought  to  be  look- 
ing rather  frail  during  the  last  two  days. 

Jack  and  Mildred  walked  together,  and  the  schoolroom 
party  followed. 

The  room  was  half  full;  the  courier  had  secured  two 
rows  of  seats,  rather  in  the  background,  where  the  music 
would  be  best  heard. 

There  were  several  children  present,  and  in  one  of  the 
foremost  chairs  sat  Dick's  little  foe,  Mademoiselle  Her- 
mine. 

Dick  saw  her  at  once,  but  his  attention  was  taken  up  by 
a  fat  little  King  Charles,  that  lay  by  its  mistress,  panting 
asthmatically. 

"It  is  a  civil  little  dog,  Milly,"  he  said,  in  a  loud 
whisper,  "but  it  does  not  speak  English;  Tcomm  liter,"  he 
added,  insinuatingly;  but  as  it  only  curled  up  its  face, 
and  showed  its  gleaming  white  teeth,  he  desisted. 

"It  wants  to  listen  to  the  music.  Oh!  look,  Mary!" 
he  cried;  "there  is  the  Banshee  in  a  low  gown,  with  bare 
arms;  is  she  going  to  sing?" 

There  was  a  general  hush  of  expectation,  for  the  Ban- 
shee was  a  famous  pianoforte-player,  a  professional  from 
the  concert-rooms  of  Vienna. 

Her  long  sonata  bored  Dick  almost  beyond  endurance. 
It  was  a  little  better  when  a  long-haired  young  German 
tenor  sang  a  plaintive  clianson  d'amour, — it  ended  grace- 
fully on  the  minor  D,  when  to  every  one's  horror  Made- 
moiselle Hcrmine's  voice  was  raised  in  a  piercing  shriek 
on  the  E  flat,  and  the  discord  made  every  well-tuned 
German  oar  vibrate  with  agony. 

The  child  was  carried  off  by  her  parents,  one  on  each 
side,  kissing  and  addressing  her  as  "Ma  cherie,  mon 
ange;"  "ma is  qu'as  tu  ?" 

Jack  bent  down  to  Dick  and  said  severely,  "  What  did 
you  do?" 

"I  only  just  held  up  this,"  answered  Dick,  looking  un- 
naturally innocent;  and  he  showed  his  mother's  long 
bonnet-pin  concealed  in  his  hands.  It  was  of  course  con- 
fiscated; and  a  pale  German  girl,  a  beginner  from  the 
Vienna  Conservatoire,  sang  Brahm's  lovely  "  Wiegenlied  " 
quite  charmingly,  and  was  very  much  applauded. 

Dita  all  the  time  sat  listening  as  if  she  was  in  a  dream. 


DITA.  13? 

The  music  seemed  to  soothe  and  lull  the  sort  of  aching 
feeling  the  constant  excitement  of  the  day  had  pi'oduced. 
A  few  whispered  words  from  Lady  Armine  had  told  her 
that  Mildred's  fate  was  now  in  her  own  hands — that  per- 
mission had  been  given  to  Jack  to  try  and  win  her. 

The  thought  came  flashing  across  her,  did  they  know 
that,  if  she  had  so  willed  it,  she  might  have  been  Jack's 
wife  now?  and  she  was  half  amused.  Would  it  have  been 
a  happy  fare?  Her  heart  answered  "  no/'  as  distinctly  as 
if  she  could  see  Edward  Norton's  dark  earnest  eyes  actual- 
ly present,  and  the  constantly  varying  expression  she  knew 
so  well.  When  she  thought  of  the  morning's  letter,  she 
felt  she  had  gained  much;  she  might  love  him  now,  she 
might  tell  herself  that  no  one  would  ever  be  to  her  what  he 
had  been;  she  might  treasure  the  knowledge  now,  locked 
up  and  kept  as  a  possession  for  life.  It  seemed  a  little 
strange  to  her  to  see  how  quickly  Jack  had  been  cured; 
but  she  felt  that  Mildred  might  be  well  content,  for  he 
was  strong  and  good  and  brave,  and  possessed  a  manly 
humility  and  resignation  to  the  inevitable.  Yes,  Mildred 
would  be  very  happy. 

Mendelssohn's  duet  from  the  "  Lieder  ohne  Worte " 
began — that  lovely  speaking  and  answering  of  two  sad  airs 
of  which  so  many  interpretations  have  been  made.  It 
was  beautifully  played  by  the  Banshee, — so  beautifully 
that  the  audience  encored  it,  and  broke  the  spell. 

"Oh,  is  it  to  be  all  over  again?"  said  Dick,  piteou?ly. 
Jack  charitably  supplied  him  with  a  piece  of  string.  'Die 
last  chords  were  still  sounding,  when  there  was  a  little 
commotion  in  the  crowd  gathered  round  the  door,  and 
Perdita  saw  the  face  of  Mrs.  Level's  maid  looking  anxious- 
ly in,  very  pale  and  disturbed.  She  jumped  up  and  touched 
Andrew. 

"  Daddy,  there  is  Summers;  she  looks  as  if  she  wanted 
us.  I  am  afraid  that  mother  is  not  so  well!" 

"Shall  I  come  with  you,  dear?"  said  Lady  Armine. 

"Oh,  no,  thanks;  it  is  very  likely  nothing  worse  than 
usual.  Please  come  when  the  concert  is  over;"  and  they 
went  hastily  away. 

"  What  is  it,  Summers?"  asked  Perdita,  as  they  reach- 
ed the  Bellevue;  for  the  maid  had  run  on  without  wait- 
ing, and  met  them  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Level's  room. 

"  Mrs.  Lovel  is  in  a  very  bad  faint,  miss,"  she  answer- 


138  D1TA. 

ed.  "I  sent  and  asked  Dr.  Schafhans  to  come  in,  and 
ran  to  fetch  you." 

They  went  in.  Nannie  was  in  a  death-like  fainting  fit, 
and  nothing  seemed  to  revive  her. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  gravely  when  Perdita  looked 
at  him.  "It  is  the  beginning  of  the  end,"  he  said  to  her 
in  German,  which  Andrew  did  not  understand.  Perdita 
felt  as  if  her  heait  would  break,  but  she  was  quite  calm, 
and  set  herself  to  do  what  the  doctor  told  her. 

After  about  an  hour  Nannie  opened  her  eyes  with  a  long 
soft  sigh.  She  was  silent,  and  her  eyes  wandered  from 
one  to  another  with  a  wondering,  scarcely  a  conscious  ex- 
pression. 

"  Her  strength  is  at  its  lowest  ebb,"  whispered  the  doc- 
tor. "You  must  try  to  get  it  up  by  every  means." 

About  half-past  ten  Lady  Armine  arrived,  and  offered 
to  stay  all  night,  which  they  thankfully  accepted.  The 
doctor  desired  that  Summers  should  go  to  bed,  that  there 
might  be  one  quite  fresh  in  the  morning.  Andrew  seemed 
thoroughly  stunned;  he  said  nothing,  but  sat  holding 
Nannie's  hand  in  his,  and  looking  at  her  without  moving, 
and  they  let  him  stay. 

Every  now  and  then  the  deadly  faintness  came  back, 
terrifying  the  watchers.  Perdita  felt  as  if  she  should  not 
have  known  how  to  bear  it  without  Lady  Armine's  calm 
experience  and  active  help,  who  told  her  what  to  do,  and 
-who  was  full  of  resource.  When  morning  dawned  they 
trusted  that  the  worst  was  over,  for  Nannie  slept. 

Lady  Armine  and  Perdita  urged  Andrew  to  follow  their 
example  and  go  to  bed  for  a  few  hours,  leaving  Summers 
and  the  doctor  both  with  the  patient;  and  he  allowed  him- 
self to  be  persuaded. 

Perdita  did  not  wake  till  two  o'clock,  and  she  found 
Lady  Armine  already  back  in  the  Bellevue.  Her  ladyship 
would  not  let  her  return  until  she  had  eaten  something, 
and  made  Mildred  see  that  she  did  so. 

Nannie's  condition  appeared  to  have  changed:  there 
was  a  pink  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  a  light  in  her  blue 
eyes,  and  she  seemed  to  be  wandering.  It  was  piteous  to 
see  how  Andrew  seemed  in  that  one  night  to  have  become 
quite  an  old  man,  looking  helplessly  from  Perdita  to 
Lady  Armine  for  comfort  and  encouragement.  The  doe^-o'1 
said  that  nothing  more  could  be  done  but  to  watch  foi 


DITA.  139 

every  change.  Her  pulse  was  fast  and  intermittent,  and 
she  was  not  conscious. 

They  sat  by  her  all  the  day,  forestalling  with  strong 
restoratives  the  tendency  to  fainting.  In  the  evening 
they  were  startled  by  hearing  her  say,  almost  in  her  nat- 
ural voice,  "  Andy,  are  you  there?" 

"Yes,  wife,  I  am  holding  your  hand." 

"  I  have  asked  mother,  honey,  and  she  says  we  may 
walk  together  after  church,  and  take  the  children  after 
the  blackberries:  there  are  so  many  this  year  by  Good- 
man's stile.  Daisy  does  nothing  but  low  all  day,  and  I 
cannot  make  her  happy;  she  had  better  go  back  to  the 
Islands." 

"  She  is  wandering,"  said  Lady  Armine,  softly. 

"She  is  living  again  in  the  past,"  said  Andrew  dream- 
ily. "Nannie,  wife,  Daisy  died  long  ago." 

"I  remember,"  she  said — "I  was  making  a  cowslip 
ball,  for  the  wine  was  finished,  and  mother  gave  me  the 
rest  of  the  flowers, — 1  remember  Daisy  would  not  touch 
her  food,  and  I  gave  her  the  cowslip  ball,  and  she  ate 
that,"  and  she  laughed  faintly. 

"  Those  were  bright  days,  Nannie,"  murmured  Andrew. 

"It  is  very  pretty,  Andy,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes  wan- 
dering around.  "And  it  is  like  you  to  have  filled  that 
jug  with  wallflowers.  I  shall  get  used  to  town  after  a  bit. 
Let  me  put  out  mother's  loaf, — nothing  so  pure  as  home- 
make  bread  in  London. 

"  You  were  happy,  wife?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I'll  be  happy  after  a  bit,  but  it  comes  strange 
when  you've  been  used  to  the  country;  and  you'll  put  up 
with  me  if  I  am  dazed-like  at  first?" 

"  I  was  not  patient  enough,  Nannie." 

"  Never  say  that,  honey.  I  am  not  clever — I  oan't 
always  understand  what  you  say;  but  you  are  rarely  good 
to  me,  and  I  would  not  have  cried  over  a  hasty  word  if  I 
had  not  been  so  muddled  to-day.  I  am  a  silly  and  igno- 
rant body  for  you  to  love,  Andy." 

"No,  dear,  dear,  wife." 

Still  her  fancy  went  wandering  on — sometimes  she  was 
walking  in  the  lanes  with  her  clever  young  London  lover, 
sometimes  fretting  over  the  blacks  that  would  sully  the 
white  curtains  she  prized.  And  so  for  three  days  it  went 


140  DITA. 

on,  Andrew  always  sitting  by  her,  and  answering  as 
though  he  shared  and  followed  her  thoughts  in  a  very 
strange  way.  One  day  was  very  sad:  she  thought  she 
held  her  little  child  in  her  arms,  and  rocked  it,  and  spoke 
to  it  as  though  it  lived,  and  t-hen  held  it  dead  to  her 
breast,  and  fought  that  they  might  not  take  it  away;  but 
after  that  it  was  always  the  same  soft  babbling  of  green 
fields  and  rural  games,  and  work — she  repeated  simple 
village  hymns  one  after  another. 

And  there  was  nothing  to  be  done;  nature  had  broken 
down — there  was  only  the  waiting  till  the  feeble  light 
should  flicker  out. 

Mildred  came  one  morning  to  the  door  of  the  chalet  and 
knocked  very  softly.  Perdita  came  out,  looking  very 
worn  and  pale. 

"  I  have  called  to  say  that  mamma  is  coming,  and  she 
wishes  you  to  come  out  for  a  little  while  with  me,  Dita," 
she  said,  kissing  her  affectionately. 

"  I  will  come;  mother  is  very  quiet  now,  and  Summers 
is  with  her.  Thank  you,  dear  Milly,  it  will  do  me  good." 

She  went  for  her  hat,  and  they  walked  together  up 
into  the  wood,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench.  It  was  very 
hot,  but  a  gentle  breeze  pluyed  among  the  trees,  and 
brought  a  sweet  scent  of  syringa  on  the  air. 

A  memory  of  what  seemed  long  ago  flushed  across  Dita, 
and  she  looked  round  at  her  companion.  Mildred's  grave 
sweet  face  was  full  of  thought. 

"  Dear  Mildred,"  said  Dita,  softly,  "  is  all  settled  now?" 

"I  did  not  like  to  disturb  you  with  my  happiness," 
she  answered,  kissing  her. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad."  said  Perdita.  "  You  will 
be  very  happy,  Milly;  and  I " 

The  words  escaped  involuntarily,  but  Mildred  did  not 
hear  them. 

The  two  girls  wandered  on;  the  wood  was  alive  with 
insect-life;  the  birds  sang,  the  grass-hoppers  kept  up  their 
merry  chirp.  They  stood  for  a  moment  over  a  tiny  pond, 
half  choked  with  its  growth  of  tangled  water-lilies:  the 
frogs  croaked  hoarsely;  and  great  dragon-flies  whirred 
past,  their  steel-like  bodies  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

Then  Perdita  turned  from  this  world  of  light  and  love, 
and  went  back  to  the  monotonous  pain  of  watching  that 
life,  so  dearly  loved,  wane  slow' 


DITA.  141 

Night  came,  and  Nannie's  voice  ceased,  and  she  be- 
came very  still. 

Lady  Armine,  very  tired,  had  gone  home  to  rest,  leav- 
ing Perdita  and  Andrew  that  night-watch.  For  the  last 
two  nights  Andrew  had  refused  to  leave  his  wife. 

Eleven  o'clock  struck — twelve — and  she  still  seemed  to 
sleep.  The  lamp  was  burning  very  low,  and  Dita  went 
softly  to  trim  it. 

There  was  a  slight  movement;  Nannie's  white  hand, 
groping  outside  the  sheets  till  it  met  Andrew's,  and  there 
rested.  Presently  she  spoke,  and  her  faint  whisper  sounded 
clearly — "Andy,  some  one  told  me  that  there  were  crim- 
son oleanders  on  the  shores  of  the  lake  of  Gennesaret, 
where  the  Saviour  is  waiting  to  heal  the  sick.  The  son 
is  setting,  and  he  bids  me  go  to  Him  walking  on  the 
water;  it  is  so  blue,  and  it  seems  as  if  1  must  sink;  but 
He  is  calling  me,  and  I  must  go." 

"Nannie — wife!"  cried  Andrew,  "  wait  for  me!  a  little 
while!" 

"  I  cannot  wait,"  she  said,  slowly;  "  I  see  Him  on  the 
shore,  and  voices  are  bidding  me  come.  Good-by,  koney 
— good-by!" 

Perdita  and  Andrew  bent  over  her  in  terror.  She  mur- 
mured something  about  the  beautiful  crimson  flowers — 
then  suddenly  a  light  came  into  her  eyes,  as  of  a  flash  of 
returning  consciousness.  Her  voice  was  very  feeble  now. 

"Andrew,  sweetheart,  I  am  going  fast." 

"  Nannie,  darling  Nannie,  have  pity!  do  not  go." 

'•'  Kiss  me,  Dita,  darling!  Go — leave  me  with  him 
now." 

Solemnly  Perdita  bent  down,  and  gave  a  long  still  kiss, 
then  she  stole  away. 

"Open  the  window,  Andy,"  gasped  the  dying  woman. 
"  Give  me  light  and  air!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  and  drew  up  the  wooden  blinds;  a 
pale  light,  half  from  the  moor.,  half  from  the  first  tinge 
of  daylight,  stole  into  the  room, 

"  Andy,"  she  said,  her  words  coming  slowly, <(  it  is  hard 
to  part."" 

"I  cannot  let  you  go,"  he  moaned. 

"Nothing  but  death  could  part  us  two,  Andy."  She 
put  her  feeble  hand  on  his  bowed  neck, — "hold  me  in 


142  DITA. 

your  arms — there,  closely,  closer  still; — raise  me.  We  are 
together  still.  Look  out  there,  when  all  is  over,  you  will 
see  the  sun  rise  up  again,  and  the  world  go  on  as  if  I  was 
with  you — with  you  still." 

''And  I,  Nannie!  I?" 

"  Come — soon." 

The  pale  light  flooded  into  the  room,  the  night-lamp 
flickered  up  and  went  out  suddenly,  and  there  was  perfect 
silence. 

Perdita  had  awakened  Summers,  and  they  had  sent  for 
the  doctor,  for  her  heart  told  her  that  the  end  was  near; 
and  when  they  heard  no  sound,  they  waited  a  while,  and 
then  went  in. 

All  was  dim,  and  the  doctor  hastily  stepped  back  and 
brought  a  light;  Nannie  was  lying  with  her  sweet  face 
looking  toward  the  window,  and  Andrew  with  his  arms 
still  round  her,  as  he  had  laid  her  down,  and  his  head  was 
buried  on  the  pillow. 

He  rose  up  when  they  spoke  to  him,  with  a  smile  on 
his  face,  and  let  Perdita  take  his  hand. 

"  She  has  gone  before,"  he  said,  "but  only  for  a  little 
while."  And  she  led  him  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THEY  were  dreary,  miserable  days  that  followed.  Lady 
Arrnine  was  very  anxious  to  get  back  to  England,  for  her 
husband  kept  writing  to  press  for  her  return,  and  Mary's 
term  of  eighteen  baths  was  accomplished;  but  she  would 
not  leave  Perdita  till  all  the  arrangements  were  over,  and 
news  had  come  that  the  sad,  unattended  funeral  had  taken 
place  at  Sal  ford. 

Mr.  Lovel  was  in  no  condition  to  travel  quickly,  and 
Dr.  Schafhaus  strongly  urged  that  he  should  not  be  dis- 
turbed in. any  way  until  he  had  somewhat  recovered  from 
the  stupor  into  which  he  seemed  to  have  sunk.  It  was 
Jack  who  made  every  arrangement,  *-to  whom  Perdita 
appealed  for  help  as  she  would  have  clone  to  a  brother. 

Jaques  was  traveling  in  Spain,  and  it  seemed  probable 
that  the  letters  were  following  him  from  place  to  place. 

Lady  Armine  was  consoled  in   leaving  Perdita  by  her 


DITA.      .  143 

assurance  that  he  would  come  to  Badfeld  the  very  moment 
he  heard  of  what  had  happened. 

Dita  drove  down  to  the  station  to  see  them  off,  and  on 
the  way  she  could  hardly  suppress  her  tears.  They  had 
nearly  half  an  hour  to  wait  in  the  new,  highly-varnished 
mile  cV  attente,  and  she  felb  as  if  every  moment  were  a 
reprieve.  Lady  Armine  made  her  promise  to  write  often, 
and  to  let  them  know  her  plans,  and  how  poor  Andrew 
went  on;  and  the  three  girls  kissed  and  embraced  each 
other  warmly. 

The  little  tinkling  bell  began  at  last,  and  the  large 
German  train  rolled  into  the  station. 

"I  have  never  thanked  you,  I  have  not  known  how  to 
thank  you,"  said  Perdita,  as  Lady  Armine  pressed  her  in 
her  arms. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear  child.     Good-by." 

They  were  hurried  off  to  take  their  places,  and  she 
could  no  longer  see  Jack  waving  his  hat  out  of  the  window. 
Then  she  went  sadly  back  to  the  chalet. 

Andrew  was  always  sitting  in  the  veranda  among  the 
oleanders.  Perdita  used  to  light  his  little  carved  pipe 
and  give  it  to  him,  but  it  always  went  out  and  he  laid  it 
down.  She  was  frightened  at  his  apathy,  and  longed 
eagerly  for  Jaques  to  come. 

Then  about  the  end  of  August  the  weather  changed. 
One  night  Perdita  was  awakened  by  the  roar  of  the  wind 
which  came  rushing  through  the  valley:  it  was  so  Avild  and 
loud  that  she  rose  up  and  stole  into  Andrew's  room  to  seo 
if  he  also  was  awake.  No,  he  was  sleeping  heavily  with- 
out movement;  and  she  went  back  to  her  room  and  with 
some  difficulty  succeeded  in  closing  the  shutters  firmly. 

The  next  morning  the  valley  was  full  of  clouds  which 
lay  in  white  solid  masses  along  the  sides  of  the  hills,  and 
the  trees  were  bending  almost  double  in  the  storm.  All 
the  gay ly- dressed  people  disappeared  from  garden  and 
balconies,  the  band  sounded  faintly  from  within  the  Kur- 
hans,  and  the  shattered  flowers  of  the  oleanders  strewed 
the  walks. 

Andrew  was  driven  indoors,  and  sat  bending  over  his 
desk,  vainly  trying  to  write  letters. 

For  two  days  the  wind  blew  and  the  valley  was  thick 
with  clouds,  then  it  went  down  suddenly,  and  a  thick 
pelting  rain  began  to  fall  incessantly.  They  were  chilled 


DITA. 

with  the  damp;   and  Budfeld  was  so  completely  a  snmmef 
place,  that  there  were  no  means  of  warming  the  rooms. 

Ac  last  Andrew,  to  Dita's  great  delight,  said  that  he 
wished  to  go  home.  The  very  fact  of  his  expressing  a 
wish  was  something  gained.  Jaques  had  not  been  heard 
of,  but  Dita  knew  that  he  often  traveled  without  leaving 
his  address,  and  though  distressed  she  was  not  surprised. 
She  made  every  arrangement;  and  on  one  day,  still  more 
wet  and  dreary  than  usual,  they  bade  adieu  to  Badfeld, 
and  started  on  their  long  journey  to  Bale. 

Dita  felt  her  spirits  rise  as  they  emerged  from  the  valley 
into  the  open  country,  gradually,  as  they  left  the  mountains 
behind  them,  getting  into  finer  weather.  They  did  nob 
reach  Bale  till  night,  and  Andrew  was  so  tired  and  worn 
out  that  Dita  was  afraid  to  push  on  their  journey  as  she 
had  intended,  and  devised  with  the  courier  a  route  by 
which  they  would  best  shorten  the  travel  i.ig  for  each  day. 
The  first  day  to  Troyes,  the  second  to  Sens,  the  third  to 
Paris. 

They  reached  Troyes  late  on  Saturday  night,  and  An- 
drew went  at  once  to  bed.  Dita  hoped  that  by  resting 
there  on  Sunday  he  would  be  able  to  go  ou  Monday,  but 
she  was  disappointed.  The  next  morning  he  was  unable 
to  rise  from  his  bed,  and  suffered  from  violent  pains  in 
the  head  and  limbs.  The  hotel  was  but  an  old-fashioned 
inn,  the  up-stairs  rooms  opening  into  an  open-air  gallery 
on  wooden  pillars  which  ran  all  round  the  little  square 
court-yard.  The  rooms  were  quiet  and  clean,  but  very  few 
travelers  seemed  to  pass  through  Troyes:  and  Dita  felt  it 
would  be  terribly  lonely  if  Andrew's  indisposition  increas- 
ed to  a  severe  illness. 

She  sent  for  the  doctor,  who  had  nothing  to  recommend 
but  a  soothing ptisa ne  and  patience.  And  she  could  only 
sit  by  Andrew,  bathing  his  brow,  and  soothing  him,  and 
feeling  very  helpless  and  disconsolate. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon,  two  days  after  the  Levels  had 
left  Badfeld,  Sir  Edward  Norton  arrived  there  with  Lady 
Norton  and  Miss  Grey.  They  had  Ivard  from  Jack  Lee 
Aston  of  poor  Nannie's  death,  and  Lady  Norton  had  com® 
to  Badfeld  full  of  kind  intentions  toward  Perdita;  and 
they  were  all  disappointed  to  find  that  they  had  gone.  Dr. 
Schafhaus  told  them  that  he  thought  they  would  go  very 
slowly  home,  for  that  Mr.  Lovel  was  in  a  very  low,  weak 


DITA.  145 

state.  And  in  hope  of  overtaking  them,  they  pursued 
their  journey  to  Bale. 

Sir  Edward  found  out  privately  from  the  hotel  manager 
that  theLovels  had  gone  on  to  Troves;  and  as  his  mother 
and  cousin  wished  to  see  the  sights  of  Bale  he  professed  an 
extreme  desire  to  visit  the  old  churches  at  Troves  and 
went  off  by  himself,  and  promising  to  rejoin  them  at  Paris 
or  at  Pontainebleaiij  which  they  had  also  wished  to  in- 
clude in  their  tour. 

He  traveled  all  Monday  afternoon,  and  arrived  at  the 
hotel,  walking  from  the  station  with  a  porter  to  carry  his 
portmanteau.  It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  and  as 
lie  came  into  the  little  court-yard,  he  found  all  the  serv- 
ants of  the  inn  sitting  round  a  table  eating  a  savory potage 
aux  croutons. 

He  began  by  asking  for  a  room,  and  was  taken  into  the 
open  galfery  up  stairs  by  the  fussy  landlady,  who  never 
ceased  talking.  She  showed  him  a  large  room  with  a 
slippery  waxed  floor,  where  he  deposited  his  luggage. 

"  Yes,  there  were  some  English  here,"  the  landlady  in- 
formed him;  "an  old  gentleman  who  was  ill,  and  his 
daughter.  They  had  arrived  on  the  Saturday,  and  were 
to  have  proceeded  on  Monday,  but  he  was  not  well  enough 
to  go." 

Sir  Edward  sent  away  his  hostess.  It  was  too  late  to 
disturb  the  Lovels  that  night,  being  nearly  ten  o'clock;  so 
he  lit  a  cigar  and  sat  out  on  the  gallery  looking  down  into 
the  court.  The  servants  had  finished  their  supper  and 
withdrawn;  the  moon  shone  down  from  a  clear  purple  sky, 
tin-owing  the  old  wooden  staircase  and  balconies  into  strong 
and  picturesque  relief.  In  the  court  below  a  white  cat 
glided  across,  her  velvet  paws  making  not  the  slightest 
sound;  far  away  in  the  street,  a  workman  going  home 
sang  a  gay  little  song  to  his  lady-love.  Sir  Edward  leant 
his  head  on  his  hand,  and  felt  the  profound  silence  as  an 
infinite  rest. 

Presently  one  of  the  doors  opened,  and  lie  saw  some  one 
come  out  and  advance  slowly  toward  him.  An  instinct 
told  him  who  it  was  before  he  even  saw  the  slender  figure, 
the  fair  head  drooping  with  sad  dejection. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  to?sed  away  his  cigar.  Dita 
started  when  she  saw  him  and  would  have  passed  on,  but 
he  moved  a  step  forward. 


146  DITA. 

"It  is  I,  Miss  Lovel;  do  you  not  know  me-?*' 

She  drew  back  a  step,  putting  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and 
then  held  it  out  to  him  tremblingly. 

"You, — you  here!"  The  impulse  was  almost  irresist- 
ible to  rush  forward  to  try  to  comfort  her,  to  pour  out  his 
story  of  love,  but  he  controlled  himself  with  an  effort. 

"I  wish,  I  do  so  wish  to  be  of  service  to  you,  if  only 
you  will  let  me.  I  have  come  to " 

Dita  withdrew  her  hand. 

"No,  no,  Miss  Lovel;  dear  Dita,  do  not  be  afraid — I 
will  say  nothing  about  that,  I  will  forget  it;  think  of 
nothing  to  distress  you.  1  promise,  you  must  let  me 
help  you  as  I  would  a  sister.  Oh  Dita!" 

For  she  leant  one  hand  on  the  balustrade,  and  covering 
her  face  with  the  other,  could  not  restrain  her  tears.  With 
a  rigid  resolve  to  be  fraternal — paternal  even — he  made 
her  sit  down  on  his  chair,  and  half  sitting  on  the  balus- 
trade himself,  waited  until  she  had  dried  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  such  a  relief  to  see  you,"  she  said- 

"Ah,  you  have  no  one  with  you!  poor  Dita!" 

The  courier  left  us  this  morning,"  said  Dita,  raising 
her  eyes  and  trying  to  smile.  "He  would  have  Missed 
an  engagement  he  had  made  for  a  very  long  journey  if  I 
had  kept  him  any  longer,  and  of  course  I  could  not  de- 
tain him  against  his  will." 

"The  brute!  He  was  bound  to  stay.  I  will  see  that 
he  does  not  escape  for  such  a  breach  of  engagement. 
Have  you  no  one  else?" 

"  Only  our  maid  Summers:  she  is  a  great  comfort,  but 
she  cannot  speak  a  word  of  French.  I  cannot  tell  you 
tho  relief  of  seeing  some  one  whom  I  know." 

"And  where  is  Caliban?  What  does  he  live  for,  but  to 
be  of  use  to  you?" 

"  His  letters  have  not  reached  him  I  suppose,  for  I 
have  not  heard  a  word  from  him.  I  wished  he  had  come 
abroad  with  us." 

"  Tell  me  about  your  father, — is  he  really  very  ill?" 

"  I  don't  understand  his  condition.  Oh,  if  I  only  had 
Dr.  Grant  here  for  five  minutes!  The  doctor  here  says 
that  he  must  on  no  account  move  at  least  for  three 
weeks." 

"  I  will  see  about  that  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  thank  you — tbank  you  for  coming!" 


DITA.  147 

"I  would  do  anything,"  he  began,  but  abruptly  left 
•ff. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Dita,  rising.  "  It  is  very  late,  and 
I  was  going  to  bed." 

"So  soon!  could  you  not  wait  a  little  longer?" 

"I  was  up  all  last  night,"  said  Dita  wearily,  "and  I 
would  talk  to  you  if  I  could,  but  I  cannot  hold  up  my 
head." 

"Poor  little  Dita,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  inexpressible 
tenderness.  "Then  go  to  bed.  Tell  me,  ought  any  one 
to  sit  up  with  your  father  to-night?" 

"Summers  is  there,"  she  said,  dreamily.  He  put  her 
candle  into  her  hand,  and  saw  her  go  down  the  gallery  to 
the  door  of  her  own  room.  Then  he  lit  another  cigar,  and 
walked  out  into  the  moonlit  town. 

Dita  was  so  worn  out,  that  she  was  asleep  before  her 
head  touched  the  pillow. 

The  next  morning  she  was  only  roused  by  her  maid, 
who  came  in  with  a  cup  of  coffee;  she  brought  a  message 
from  Sir  Edward,  begging  her  not  to  get  up,  and  saying 
that  he  had  given  Mr.  Lovel  his  breakfast,  and  would  see 
the  doctor  and  receive  his  orders.  Dita  turned  her  head, 
and  witli  a  delicious  feeling  of  security,  was  asleep  again 
before  her  maid  had  left  the  room. 

About  two  o'clock  she  came  down  with  a  guilty  feeling 
that  she  had  been  neglecting  her  duty,  and  hurried  to 
Mr.  Level's  room.  He  was  out  of  bed  and  sitting  propped 
up  by  pillows  in  a  large  armchair,  Edward  Xorton  beside 
him,  reading  aloud  an  English  newspaper. 

There  was  a  more  lifelike  and  less  painful  expression 
on  the  old  man's  face  than  it  had  worn  since  the  death  of 
his  wife,  and  he  looked  up  and  actually  smiled  as  Dita 
came  in. 

"You  have  had  a  long  rest,  my  love,"  he  said,  "and 
you  look  the  better  for  it." 

Edward,  looking  at  Dita,  thought  she  must  have  looked 
ill  indeed  if  this  was  better;  his  heart  ached  to  see  how 
pale  and  thin  she  was,  and  how  large  her  dark  eyes  had 
gro\vn  during  those  few  weeks. 

"  I  know  something  of  doctoring,  Miss  Lovel,"  said  he 
— "gained  during  the  time  that  I  have  been  knocking 
about  in  the  world,  and  I  hope  you  will  approve  of  my 


148  DITA. 

change  of  treatment.  I  gave  your  father  a  beefsteak  for 
breakfast." 

Dita  looked  horrified. 

"1  think  it  lias  done  me  good,  dear,"  said  Andrew, 
feebly;  "  I  was  so  tired  of  beef- tea." 

"And  this  afternoon  we  will  get  him  out  a  little  way," 
said  Sir  Edward,  cheerily;  "I  have  got  a  very  decent 
voiinre  dc  rcmixc,  and  the  air  is  delicious  to-day." 

Dita  could  see  that  Andrew  was  better  for  the  change 
of  treatment,  and  she  resolved  to  trust  Edward  implicitly. 

Luncheon  came  for  Andrew;  delicate  soup  made  with 
Summer's  best  skill;  but  Sir  Edward  insisted  upon  taking 
him  up  a  wing  of  chicken  from  their  dinner  down  stairs, 
and  sending  away  the  omelet. 

He  helped  him  tenderly  into  the  carriage,  and  propped 
him  up  with  cushions,  bidding  the  coachman  drive  very 
steadily. 

They  went  to  the  old  cathedral,  and  Dita  and  Sir  Ed- 
ward got  out  to  see  it,  leaving  Andrew  lying  back  quietly 
in  the  carriage  enjoying  the  sweet  fresh  air. 

In  the  evening  the  doctor  called,  and  was  quite  aston- 
ished at  the  improvement  of  pulse  and  general  appearance 
in  his  patient.  Sir  Edward  insisted  on  a  private  interview, 
and  ascertained  that  what  he  suspected  was  true — that 
Andrew  was  suffering  from  complete  nervous  prostration, 
misunderstood  by  Dr.  Sbafhaus,  who  had  allowed  his 
strength  to  run  down  very  low,  by  keeping  him  on  an  in- 
valid diet. 

It  seemed  very  hard  to  take  away  this  English  milord, 
this  layer  of  golden  eggs,  from  the  little  old  doctor;  but 
he  acknowledged,  when  pressed,  that  there  was  no  real 
need  to  delay  going  homeward  by  short  stages.  Dita 
could  scarcely  believe  the  good  tidings. 

Next  day  came  a  letter  from  Lady  Norton,  from  Eon- 
tainebleau;  she  had  gone  there  with  Miss  Grey,  and  wrote 
a  most  alluring  account  of  the  delightful  rooms  they  had 
engaged  on  the  ground-floor,  opening  on  to  a  pretty  gar- 
den. They  had  had  one  drive  in  the  forest,  which  was 
enchanting.  "  If  yon  have  found  Mr.  Lovel  and  Dita," 
wrote  Lady  Norton,  "do  persuade  them  to  come  here  and 
stay  with  us  for  a  week  or  two.  I  will  take  great  care  of 
Mr.  Lovel,  and  we  will  try  amongst  us  to  make  them 
happy." 


DITA.  140 

Edward  read  this  part  of  bis  letter  to  Dita.  She  was 
very  much  tempted  by  the  idea.  Andrew  had  a  great 
dread  of  returning  borne,  and  she  longed  for  him  Fo  be 
stronger  before  be  should  have  to  pass  through  that  ordeal, 
lie  also  caught  at  the  idea;  so  they  moved  to  Sens,  and 
from  thence  an  hour's  journey  took  them  to  Fontaine- 
blean. 

Lndy  Norton  had  engaged  rooms  as  pleasant  as  her  own 
for  their  reception,  and  she  was  there  waiting,  with  an 
English  tea  spread  out;  and  she  welcomed  Dita  with  a 
warm,  motherly  kiss,  and  petted  her,  and  looked  after 
her  with  the  greatest  care. 

After  they  had  been  settled  there  for  about  three  days, 
Edward  Norton  came  into  their  sitting-room. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-by,  Miss  Lovel." 

"Good -by,"  she  faltered. 

"Yes,  I  am  off  to  London;  I  did  not  tell  you  before.  I 
am  going  to  my  chambers.  I  have  my  fortune  to  make." 
He  tried  to  speak  lightly. 

Their  hands  met  in  one  short  grasp.  Dita  could  not 
speak,  but  she  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  that  his  were  look- 
ing down  on  her  full  of  tears. 

He  was  gone,  and  Dita  sat  down,  feeling  as  if  she  were 
alone  in  the  whole  wide  world. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  ANGUS  is  going  up  to  the  moors,  to-day,"  said  Mabel 
Maemonach,  coming  into  the  turret-room  where  Lady 
Grisel  was  sitting. 

"  Is  he?    Has  lie  asked  any  one  to  go  with  him?" 

"  He  has  asked  Craigenlowe  to  join  him  with  his  new 
dogs, — the  keepers  have  seen  a  great  stag  at  the  foot  of 
Benichon." 

"  Then  we  must  amuse  ourselves,  Mabel.  Shall  we  go 
up  to  see  some  poor  people  this  morning,  or  make  one  of 
the  men  row  us  about  on  the  lake?" 

"I  am  tired,"  said  Mabel,  plaintively;  "and  I  want  to 
Avrite  a  long  letter  to  Mildred;  would  you  mind  not  going 
out  till  this  afternoon?" 

"I  will   go  myself  up  to  the   farm,"  answered   Lady 


150  DITA. 

Grisel,  "  for  I  hear  that  one  of  the  twins  is  ill;  but  I  shall 
not  be  long  away,  and  you  will  be  able  to  get  through 
your  letter  without  interruption." 

"I  have  had  such  a  happy  letter  from  Milly,"  said 
Mabel,  smiling;  "  she  thinks  no  one  in  the  world  like  her 
Jack." 

"  You  like  him  very  much,  do  you  not?" 

"  He  was  a  very  nice,  merry  creature,"  said  Mabel. 
"Not  clever.  I  don't  think  him  worthy  of  Mildred;  bub 
then  no  one  can  be  worthy  of  her/''  she  added,  with  all 
the  partiality  of  a  sister. 

"  I  think  all  you  tell  me  sounds  very  nice  and  happy." 
said  Lady  Grisel.  "Does  she  tell  you  any  plans  yet,  and 
where  they  are  to  live?" 

"  Yes;  she  tells  me  all  about  it,"  answered  Mabel,  be- 
ginning to  arrange  her  writing  materials.  "  They  are  to 
have  a  little  house  in  London,  somewhere  in  the  South 
Kensington  region,  that  is  to  be  their  home;  but  they 
are  to  be  a  great  deal  with  Miss  Ash  burn,  who,  although 
she  is  so  deaf,  is  a  very  dear  old  lady,  and  is  quite  de- 
lighted, Milly  says,  that  Jack  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  Where  does  she  live?" 

"About  twelve  miles  from  the  Lee  Astons.  Mamma 
and  Milly  are  going  there  for  her  to  make  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Ashburn.  Thev  will  be  neighbors  to  Salford 
Abbey." 

"  Who  lives  at  Salford  Abbey?"  said  Lady  Grisel,  smil- 
ing. 

"  The  Lovels, — pretty  Perdita  Lovel  whom  I  have  told 
you  about." 

"  Ah,  poor  girl!  I  wonder  how  she  is  getting  on  since 
your  mother  left  her!  It  must  have  been  a  wonderful 
comfort  to  her  having  Lady  Armine  there." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mabel.  "I  must  think  of  my 
wedding  present  for  Mildred,"  she  began.  "I  cannot 
make  up  my  mind  whether  it  shall  be  something  very 
lovely  for  her  house  or  an  ornament.  I  suppose  the  house 
will  be  of  most  consequence,  as  she  will  be  poor  at  first." 

"Yes;  but  they  will  not  always  be  poor,  and  an  orna- 
ment lasts  for  ever." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Mabel,  joyfully;  "  it  is 
a  much  more  interesting  present." 


DITA.  151 

Angus  came  in  equipped  for  deer-stalking. 

"  Yon  will  be  sure  to  send  tny  letters  to  the  post, 
Mabel,"  he  said,  in  his  measured  tones. 

"  Yes,  Angus,  I  shall  not  forget." 

"Craigenlowe  will  sleep  here  to-night,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, so  be  prepared.  Good-by." 

Lady  Grisel  and  Mabel  went  out  to  the  door  to  see  them 
start.  Mabel  had  a  childish  personal  affection  for  all  sorts 
of  animals.  She  sat  down  on  the  steps  while  Angus  was 
speaking  to  one  of  the  keepers,  and  the  dogs  all  came 
pressing  round  her,  licking  her  bauds  and  fawning  on  her, 
straining  against  their  coupling. 

"  How  can  you  let  them  lick  you?"  said  Angus;  but 
Mabel  scarcely  heard,  for  she  had  pushed  away  the  dogs 
and  was  petting  and  caressing  the  thick-maned  ponies. 

"Where  does  Craigenlowe  meet  you?"  asked  Lady 
Grisel,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun,  and  looking  away 
over  the  hills  toward  beautiful  Benichon. 

"At  the  burn.  Now  then."  They  whistled  off  the 
dogs  and  started.  One  of  Mabel's  favorites  lingered  be- 
hind, pressing  up  to  her;  Angus's  whistle  summoned  him, 
and  as  he  obeyed  the  call  he  was  greeted  by  a  sharp  lash 
for  loitering.  She  could  not  suppress  a  bitter  little  sigh  as 
she  turned  into  the  house. 

"  Good-by,  my  child,"  said  Lady  Grisel,  looking  in  with 
her  out-of-door  apparel  on.  Mabel  was  sitting  at  her 
desk,  already  intent  upon  her  letter.  "I  shall  not  be 
very  long.  Good-by." 

Mabel  put  down  her  pen  and  came  up  to  Lady  Grisel 
to  be  kissed. 

"Give  my  love  to  Mildred,"  she  said.  "And,  Mabel, 
you  shall,  if  you  like,  search  through  all  my  old  jewels  to 
find  something  lovely  for  me  to  give  to  her." 

"Thank  you,  you  dearest  and  best  of  mothers,"  cried 
Mabel.  She  had  never  called  her  that  before,  and  Lady 
Grisel  went  away  with  her  heart  full  of  loving  tenderness 
toward  her. 

Mabel  wrote  on.  The  second  full  sheet  was  finished, 
and  she  had  just  begun  a  third,  when  a  servant  brought 
in  a  little  screwcd-up  piece  of  paper. 

"  From  Dunmonnigh,  if  you  please,  ma'am,"  he  said 
Willie  was  not  to  wait  for  an  answer," 


152  DITA. 

Mabel  opened  it,  and  a  key  fell  out;  she  read  these 
lines  written  inside  an  old  envelope — 

"I  forgot  that  I  had  left  a  most  important  letter  in  my  desk, 
directed  to  A.  Smith,  Esq.,  etc.;  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be 
sent  off  to  day.  Please  open  my  desk  and  you  will  find  it  ready 
sealed  and  stamped  in  the  right-hand  middle  drawer:  I  send  you 
the  key." 

The  post  did  not  go  till  one  o'clock,  so  Mabel,  in  no 
hurry,  finished  and  fastened  up  her  letter,  and  she  took 
up  the  key  and  went  with  it  to  Angus's  room. 

Her  husband's  sitting-room  was  very  little  known  to  the 
young  wife.  Very  early  in  their  married  life,  she  had 
found  out  that  she  was  not  welcome  there.  AYhenever  she 
went  in,  he  ceased  any  occupation  on  which  he  might  be 
employed,  and  contrived  to  make  her  feel  as  if  she  wa.«  a 
visitor  and  an  interruption  to  him;  and  as  he  did  almost 
all  his  morning  work  there,  she  saw  very  little  of  him, 
and  was  too  timid  to  attempt  more. 

It  was  a  large,  comfortable  room,  well  filled  with  books, 
and  with  useful  maps  and  papers.  The  bureau,  which 
Angus  always  kept  carefully  locked,  stood  close  to  the 
fireplace;  for  he  was  of  a  very  chilly  nature,  and  often 
had  fires  burning  when  other  people  could  not  have  borne 
them.  The  room  had  a  northern  aspect,  and  overhung 
the  end  of  the  loch. 

Mabel,  with  the  key  in  her  hand,  went  up  to  the  bureau, 
and,  sitting  down  before  it,  unlocked  it.  The  lid  (it  was 
a  large,  round-topped  secretaire)  was  heavy,  but  she  suc- 
ceeded in  pushing  it  open.  She  opened  the  drawer  that 
Angus  had  mentioned,  but  to  her  surprise,  for  he  was 
very  accurate,  the  letter  was  not  there,  and  she  proceeded 
with  her  search.  The  drawers  were  all  set  round  an  arch 
in  the  center  of  the  bureau,  with  tiny  ivory  pillars  and  a 
little  floor  of  ebony  and  ivory  diapers.  There  she  saw 
what  was  evidently  the  letter  of  which  she  was  in  search 
on  the  little  floor,  held  down  by  an  exceedingly  heavy 
brass  paper-weight.  She  took  hold  of  it  eagerly,  she  was 
so  anxious  to  execute  well  this  little  commission  her  hus- 
band had  given  her. 

Mabel  had  not  calculated  on  the  weight  of  the  brass 
ornament;  it  slipped  from  her  hand  and  fell  with  violence 
on  to  the  ivory  work.  One  of  the  little  pillars  was  pushed 


DITA.  153 

back,  evidently  by  the  jar  given  to  some  strong  spring, 
and  under  her  very  hand  a  secret  drawer  sprang  out. 

Mabel  was  much  startled;  the  drawer  was  full  of  papers, 
and  she  was  about  to  shut  it  hastily  when  her  eye  was  at- 
tracted by  one  word,  and  she  opened  and  read  them. 

Presently  the  bell  of  Angus's  room  pealed  violently 
through  the  house.  The  butler,  astonished  at  so  unusual 
a  sound,  ran  hastily  to  answer  it. 

Mabel  was  standing  in  front  of  the  desk  looking  quite 
awful,  as  he  expressed  it  afterward,  her  eyes  wide  dis- 
tended and  staring,  her  face  blanched  to  a  deadly  white- 
ness. 

"  Lady  Grisel,  send  Lady  Grisel,"  she  gasped. 

Lady  Grisel  was  just  coming  home  from  her  walk, 
when  she  was  met  by  the  man  running  to  meet  her  with 
a  scared  face.  She  did  not  wait  till  his  story  was  over, 
but  rushed  into  her  son's  room. 

She  found  Mabel  lying  insensible  on  the  ground,  and 
strewn  all  over  her  the  papers. 

Lady  Grisel  caught  them  up  in  deadly  terror:  there  was 
no  mistaking  their  meaning;  they  were  Ewan  and  As- 
sunta's  marriage  certificates. 

Before  that  night  telegrams  were  speeding  over  the 
country:  to  Edinburgh  for  doctors;  to  Lady  Armine, 
summoning  her  to  come  without  a  moment's  delay. 

All  through  the  night  there  was  running  to  and  fro, 
and  whispering  and  agonized  prayers.  Before  the  first 
blue  light  of  morning  paled  the  sky.  a  son  was  born  to 
Dunmouaigh,  and  mother  and  child  lay  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

LADY  GRISEL  came  slowly  into  Angus's  room;  be  sat 
before  a  table  with  his  face  hidden  on  his  arms.  She 
stood  for  one  moment  looking  down  on  him  unable  to 
speak.  He  looked  up  at  last  with  haggard  eyes;  she  held 
the  fatal  papers  in  her  hands. 

"Tell  me,''  he  burst  out,  "mother,  was  it  that  that 
did  it?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Lady  Grisel,  stonily.  "  First  Assuuta, 
now  MabeJ. " 


154  DITA. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  to  do  now?"  he  said,  as  she 
sunk  down  on  a  chair. 

"Justice!" 

She  heard  his  long-drawn  breath,  as  if  he  were  panting 
hard. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  the  temptation  was,"  he  said. 
"There  were  no  other  proofs,  no  witnesses.  Others  have 
survived  such  things,  why  not  she?  And  you  see  I  never 
destroyed  them?" 

"  Angus,  spare  me  that;  the  disgrace  has  killed  your 
wife." 

"  Do  not  speak  like  that,"  he  said,  almost  savagely: 
"you  will  drive  me  more  mad  than  I  am  already." 

"  Then  spare  me  your  excuses." 

"Mother,  you  are  as  hard  as  stone." 

She  made  no  answer.  It  was  a  strange  scene  in  the 
early  morning  light:  Lady  Grisel  pale  and  rigid,  with  a 
look  of  concentrated  agony  in  her  face,  Angus  pacing  the 
room  in  his  mud-spattered  shooting- dress,  as  he  had  come 
in  the  evening  before.  At  last  he  said,  slowly,  "  What 
can  I  do?" 

"Justice!"  she  repeated. 

"To  whom?" 

"  To  Ewan's  child.'' 

"Does  she  still  live?" 

"  We  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  find  her,  that  you 
may  atone  for  your  sin." 

"And  have  you  thought  of  me,  mother?"  he  said, 
clinching  his  teeth  together.  "  Am  I  not  also  your  son? 
Do  you  know  to  what  you  would  condemn  me?" 

"  God  help  me,"  she  answered,  her  head  sinking  on  her 
breast. 

"I  will  not  stay,"  he  cried.  "I  have  incurred  the 
penalty  of  the  law;  the  law  will  make  me  a  beggar;  the 
law  will  brand  me  as  a  felon — a  felon!  Do  you  hear?" 

Her  hands  wrung  together. 

"  So  I  shall  go,"  he  said,  "  that  you  may  not  have  a 
felon  for  your  son.  You  shall  never  see  me  more." 

"  Angus!" 

"  Do  not  try  to  stop  me,  mother,"  lie  cried,  "or  I  shall 
go  quite  mad]  Mabel!  my  Mabel!  my  pretty  Mabel!  I 
have  a  fire  raging  here,"  and  he  pressed  his  brow;  "I  can 


DITA.  155 

gee  nothing  bat  her  eyes  upbraiding  me.  Good  God!  I 
must  go." 

"  You  shall,  Angus.  It  will  be  better  so;  but  not  now. 
You  cannot  leave  her  so." 

"  Say  what  you  will,  mother;  that  the  papers  have  been 
found.  Save  the  honor  of  the  old  name  if  you  can.  I 
will  never  come  home  to  disgrace  you." 

Lady  Griscl  thought  for  one  moment,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that  it  might  be  best  that  he  should  go.  She  was  ter- 
rified at  the  wild  bloodshot  eyes  and  twitching  hands. 

"Angus!"  she  cried — "not  to-night.  Can  you  not 
stay  and  see  her  mother?" 

Aery,  strange  and  low,  like  the  cry  of  some  hunted  ani- 
mal, broke  from  his  lips. 

"  Her  mother!"  he  cried;  "  how  can  I  meet  her?  How 
have  I  kept  my  trust?" 

"  Mabel  loved  you,"  she  said,  faintly,  hoping  to  touch 
some  softening  chord:  "she  loved  you,  Angus." 

"  And  I  have  killed  her.     Let  me  go." 

He  sprang  toward  the  door;  then  suddenly  coming  back, 
lie  said,  "  I  will  write  to  you  from  London.  I  shall  wait 
there  till  the  child  is  found,  but  I  will  never  come  home." 

"  Will  you  not  look  at  her  once  more,  Angus?  She 
looks  very  beautiful;  she  forgave  you  and  loved  you;  your 
name  was  the  last  on  her  lips.  Oh,  my  boy,  do  not  go 
like  this!" 

"  I  cannot.     You  are  cruel,  mother — you  torture  me." 

She  clung  passionately  to  him. 

"Angus!  you  whom  I  have  loved  beyond  all  others  in 
this  cruel  world!  you  for  whom  I  would  have  died,  listen 
to  me!'' 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother!" 

"I  forgive  you!  Mabel  has  forgiven  you,  Angus — 
make  Ewan's  child  forgive  you  in  his  name  and  his  wife's; 
then  down  on  your  knees  and  pray,  and  wrestle  for  a 
blessing,  and  in  God's  own  time  He  will  also  forgive  my 
son!" 

"  I  will,  God  help  me;  let  me  go." 

He  crossed  the  hall,  drew  back  the  bolts,  and  went 
down  upon  the  steps.-  She  stood  watching  him  as  he  un- 
did the  boat  and  stepped  into  it,  her  hands  clasped  in  tear- 
less agony. 


156  DITA. 

"  One  last  good-by,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  arms 
toward  him. 

"  No,  no!  I  am  not  worthy f  be  answered. 

He  drew  himself  from  her  clinging  arms,  she  saw  him 
bending  to  the  oars,  and  the  little  boat  speeding  across  the 
water. 

Long  white  streaks  shone  in  the  sky,  brightening  and 
brightening  till  they  suddenly  gleamed  down  like  blades 
of  shining  steel  athwart  the  loch,  and  the  sun  rose  up, 
cold  and  white  and  brilliant. 

Lady  Grisel  shivered,  and  the  bitter  cold  of  early  morn- 
ing chilled  her  through  and  through;  she  turned  and  went 
to  Mabel's  room  and  knelt  down  by  her  side. 

Mabel  was  beautiful  in  death,  she  had  smiled  when  they 
laid  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  the  smile  had  rested  there; 
all  that  might  have  been  of  grief  and  agony  could  never 
touch  her  now;  and  Lady  Grisel  kneeling  by  her,  could 
only  utter  again  and  again,  "Thank  Gol,  oh  thank  God, 
that  He  has  taken  her  home!" 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  night  poor  Lady  Armine 
arrived.  Lady  Grisel  met  her  at  the  door,  and  her  face 
told  the  tale  her  dry  lips  could  not  utter.  Too  late.  The 
mother's  grief  at  first  was  overwhelming.  She  had  loved 
Mabel  even  more  than  her  other  children;  there  had 
always  been  something  so  clinging,  so  dependent  about 
the  child,  that  she  had  been  their  veriest  darling. 

Lady  Grisel  told  the  whole  story  without  omitting  one 
fact  or  making  one  excuse.  It  came  from  her  lips  as  if 
wrung  from  her  by  the  torture  of  the  rack,  but  she  told 
it  all.  She  braced  herself  to  bear  the  reproaches,  the 
hard  words  she  awaited,  and  she  would  have  borne  them 
all  and  thought  that  little;  but  instead  of  that,  Lady 
Armine  threw  her  kind  arms  round  her  neck,  saying — 

"Ah,  Grisel,  how  much  we  both  have  suffered!" 

Then  came  to  her  the  relief  of  passionate  tears.  Lady 
Grisel  felt  drawn  inexpressibly  to  her,  and  she  poured  out 
to  her  how  dearly  she  had  loved  Mabel, — how  hard  she 
had  striven  to  make  her  happy;  and  then  all  her  terror 
and  anguish  over  Angus  came  out,  and  the  old  story  of 
having  misunderstood  and  thwarted  Ewan. 

"I  have  ruined  my  sons!"  she  cried,  in  the  strong  self- 
abasement  of  a  proud  nature  brought  low;  and  Lady 


DITA.  15? 

Armine  found  her  oivn  best  comfort  in  trying  to  sustain 
her  fellow-sufferer. 

Toward  the  evening  of  the  following  day  Lord  Armine 
and  Mildred  arrived;  and  all  had  to  be  goue»  over  again. 

Whon  night  came  they  were  all  worn  out,  and  all  went 
to  rest  but  Lady  Grisel.  She  could  not  sleep;  in  vain  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  tried  to  lull  her  aching  thoughts. 
She  could  not  rest:  she  wandered  among  the  empty  rooms 
down  stairs;  she  took  up  the  book  Mabel  was  reading, 
the  drawing  on  which  she  had  been  intent  only  two  days 
ago;  she  found  her  long  letter  to  Mildred  on  her  desk, 
the  half- finished  designs  for  the  setting  of  the  diamonds, 
in  which  she  had  taken  such  a  childish  delight,  all  just 
as  it  had  been, — and  at  last  tears  came  to  her  relief. 

The  nest  morning  she  had  a  long  interview  with  Lord 
Armine.  He  strongly  advised  that  no  unnecessary  mys- 
tery should  be  made, — that  the  world  should  be  told  that 
the  marriage  of  Ewan  Macmonach  had  been  proved  by 
the  finding  of  the  necessary  papers,  and  that  Angus,  glad 
to  have  something  to  do  in  the  first  agony  of  his  bereave- 
ment, had  gone  away  to  look  for  the  lost  heir.  As  soon 
as  the  funeral  should  be  over,  they  must  at  once  take 
steps  to  make  restitution  to  Ewan's  child. 

Lord  Armine  went  up  to  the  manse  to  see  and  talk  over 
matters  with  the  old  Minister. 

Master  Malcolm  was  terribly  shaken  and  distressed  by 
all  that  had  happened.  He  seemed  so  feeble  and  old,  that 
at  first  Lord  Armine  thought  that  he  would  be  of  no  use; 
but  his  memory  was  clear  when  he  had  recovered  suf- 
ficiently to  collect  his  thoughts,  and  he  supplied  him  with 
dates  and  names,  and  the  address  of  the  old  shop  in  Edgar 
Street,  Soho.  He  considered  it  sufficient  ground  to  work 
upon. 

The  sad  day  came  at  last, — the  funeral  of  the  bride 
who  had  come  to  Dunmonaigh  but  one  year  ago.  All  the 
people  iti  the  country-side  thronged  together,  and  many 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears,  and  there  were  wondering  mui- 
murs  at  the  absence  of  Angus  Macmonach. 

Two  days  after,  Lady  Grisel  allowed  herself  to  be  per- 
suaded to  accompany  the  Armines  to  London,  whither 
Lord  Armine  wished  to  return.  Her  silver-gray  hair  had 
grown  as  white  as  snow. 


158  DITA. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

LA.DY  NOBTOX  and  the  Levels  lingered  on  at  Fontaine- 
bleau.  The  weather  was  charming  with  all  the  fresh 
sweetness  of  the  air  of  France,  and  Andrew  daily  gained 
strength.  Jaques  joined  them  for  a  few  days,  and  to 
talk  to  him  seemed  to  do  the  old  man  real  and  lasting 
good.  Poor  Jaques!  always  covering  strong  feelings  with 
uncouth  reserve,  no  one  knew  how  he  missed  the  ever- 
ready  sympathy  poor  Nannie  had  always  given  him.  He 
devoted  himself  to  Andrew  with  a  touching  devotion, 
obeying  and  forestalling  his  every  wish.  It  was  a  great 
grief  to  him  that  he  had  been  unable  to  obey  Perdita's 
summons  to  Badfeld;  but  be  had  been  wandering  in 
Spain  in  pursuit  of  old  Spanish  specimens  of  bookbind- 
ing, and  his  estimate  of  Bis  own  importance  was  so  very 
low  that  he  seldom  left  his  address.  Jaques  was  obliged 
to  return  to  England  after  a  very  few  days  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  for  all  Andrew's  affairs  bad  long  been  under  his 
superintendence,  and  they  required  his  presence. 

Perdita  made  friends  with  Miss  Grey,  a  gentle  delicate 
girl  of  rather  a  sentimental  low-pitched  tone  of  mind, 
that  suited  just  now  with  Perdita's  feelings;  and  they 
enjoyed  long  rambles  in  the  forest,  and  sitting  in  their 
little  garden  in  the  warm  air. 

To  every  one's  surprise,  one  day  Jaques  suddenly  reap- 
peared; he  looked  anxious  and  distrait,  and  demanded  to 
see  Mr.  Lovel  alone.  The  two  girls  went  out  into  the 
garden,  and  Jaques  sat  down  by  the  old  man,  who  was 
somewhat  tremulous  and  nervous,  at  the  suddenness  of  his 
arrival. 

Jaques  with  some  solemnity  unfolded  a  "Times"  which 
he  took  from  his  traveling-bag,  and  laying  it  on  the  table 
said — 

"  I  believe  this  advertisement  has  reference  to  us." 

Andrew  took  up  the  paper,  but  his  hand  shook. 

"  Read  it,  Jaques,"  he  said;  and  Jaques  read,  while  a 
choking  feeling  in  his  throat  made  his  voice  sound  strange 
and  harsh. 

"  Andrew  Fairdon,  once  bookseller  iti   Edgar   Street, 


DITA.  159 

Soho,  and  Anne  his  wife,  are  requested  to  communicate 
with  Messrs.  Short,  Browning  &  Short,  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 
Circumstances  relating  to  the  birth  of  their  adopted  child 
will  prove,  on  application  to  above,  greatly  to  her  advan- 
tage." 

Jaques  laid  the  paper  down.  Andrew  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands. 

"  I  am  to  lose  the  child,"  he  said,  in  a  weak,  broken 
voice. 

"  No,  nothing  can  take  her  love  from  you,"  said  Jaques. 
"  But  this  must  be  inquired  into;  it  will  remove  all  ob- 
stacles to  her  marriage." 

"  Obstacles!"  exclaimed  Andrew;  "  what  do  you  mean? 
Of  course  it  must  be  inquired  into,"  he  said,  rather  pet- 
tishly, "  and  I  must  be  on  the  spot  to  do  it.  I  will  go 
with  you  to  London,  Jaques." 

"And  leave  the  ladies  here?" 

"  Yes;  if  Lady  Norton  will  have  Perdita,  I  will  tell  her, 
but  I  will  not  have  the  child  disturbed;  do  you  hear?" 

"No,"  said  Jaques,  sadly;  "she  will  know  soon  enough." 

Accordingly,  Mr.  Lovel  and  Jaques  set  off  by  them- 
selves, leaving  Perdita  greatly  wondering  and  disturbed 
at  their  mysterious  proceedings. 

About  a  week  passed,  then  Lady  Norton  told  Perdita 
that  she  had  heard  from  Mr.  Lovel,  and  that  she  was  going 
to  take  her  and  Miss  Grey  to  London. 

Perdita  was  bewildered,  but  she  packed  up  her  things, 
and  with  regret  they  bade  adieu  to  lovely,  sunny  Fontaiue- 
bleau, — gave  their  last  handful  of  bread  to  the  oH  carp, 
and  started  homeward. 

They  had  to  leave  Paris  very  early  to  catch  the  tidal 
train,  and  it  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  before,  dusty  and 
weary,  they  reached  their  destination,  Thomas's  Hotel,  in 
Berkeley  Square. 

Andrew  and  Jaques  were  there  to  receive  them.  An- 
drew looked  far  better  and  more  animated.  The  necessi- 
ty for  exertion  had  done  him  good.  He  had  secured  a 
sitting-room  for  Perdita,  and  there,  holding  her  hand, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  told  her  that  papers  had  been  found, 
and  that  the  stain  that  during  all  these  long  years  had 
rested  on  her  mother's  name  was  wiped  away  for  ever. 

"They  claim  you,  my  child,"  said  Andrew,  his  voice 
faltering.  "  You  are  no  longer  all  my  own." 


160  DITA. 

Here  he  thoroughly  broke  down;  but  Dita,  kneeling  by 
his  side,  repeated  over  and  over  again  that  no  name,  no 
new  relations,  could  ever  make  her  love  her  adopted  father 
less. 

"How  pleased  mammie  would  have  been!"  she  said, 
her  tears  overflowing  when  she  thought  of  the  dear  one 
who  had  never  let  her  want  a  mother's  tenderest  love. 

Andrew  told  her  all  he  knew — that  the  papers  had  been 
found  in  a  secret  drawer  of  a  bureau  that  was  originally  in 
Ewan  Macmonach's  room,  and  it  was  generally  supposed 
that  he  had  placed  them  there  for  additional  safety. 

"  Your  uncle  has  behaved  most  handsomely,  Perdita," 
he  said.  "  His  one  wish  and  that  of  Lady  Grisel  his 
mother,  is  to  see  you  in  full  possession  of  your  own  as  soon 
as  possible.  To-morrow  he  is  coming  here,  anxious  to 
have  one  interview  with  you  before  he  leaves  England. 
His  wife's  death  has  shattered  him,"  said  he,  feelingly. 

Perdita  lay  long  awake  that  night,  her  mind  in  a  whirl 
of  thought. 

The  next  morning  she  had  scarcely  finished  breakfast 
before  Angus  Macmonach  arrived. 

"  Your  uncle,  Perdita,"  said  Andrew,  rather  pompous- 
ly. And  he  left  them  alone  together. 

Angus  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  and  his  face 
was  pale  and  haggard. 

"  You  have  been  told?"  he  said,  abruptly — and  sitting 
down  in  front  of  Perdita,  he  pushed  the  damp  hair  back 
from  his  brow. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  gently;  "and  I  am  very  glad.  It  is 
untold  joy  to  know  that  I  may  honor  my  father's  memory 
as  I  do  my  mother's;  bat,"  slie  added,  putting  out  her 
hand  and  touching  his,  "  the  money  is  nothing  to  me.  I 
cannot  bear  that  you  should  leave  Dunmonaigh.  I  am 
grieved  for  you;  and  you  have  been  so  noble,  so  generous, 
in  thus  seeking  me  out." 

"Hush!"  he  cried.  "Stop!  you  do  not  know  what 
you  say."  There  was  such  a  sound  of  acute  pain  in  his 
voice  that  Perdita  started:  he  suddenly  bent  forward, — 
"Can  you  keep  a  secret?"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  He  rose  and  walked  thrice  up 
and  down,  then  suddenly  flinging  himself  into  a  chair  he 
began : — 


DITA.  161 

' '  Ewan  and  I  were  nearly  of  an  age,  and  people  say  that 
two  such  brothers  are  generally  inseparable.  It  was  never 
so  with  us;  the  nurses  used  to  say,  this  child  is  his  father's 
own,  and  this  his  mother's.  Fortune  plays  strange  tricks: 
if  I  had  been  the  eldest,  he  the  younger  son,  neither  would 
have  suffered  as  we  did.  My  father  never  cared  for  me, 
my  mother  idolized  me.  Ewan  would  have  loved  me  if  I 
had  willed  it  so;  but  I  saw  that  I,  the  cleverer  one,  with 
better  intellect  and  stronger  powers,  was  hedged  in,  crush- 
ed on  every  side,  for  want  of  that  wealth  he  valued  so  lit- 
tle. There  are  moments  (and  this  is  one)  in  which  men 
speak  their  thoughts  straight  out.  I  knew  myself  to  pos- 
sess the  stronger  mind  and  intellect.  I  envied  his  rare 
beauty,  his  attractiveness,  the  influence  he  possessed  over 
others,  which  in  my  hands  would  have  been  a  tower  of 
strength,  and  in  his  was  only  a  means  of  attaching  person- 
al love.  I  never  tried  to  curb  my  jealousy,  and  it  became 
the  strongest  passion  of  my  life. 

"Then  came  a  day  on  which  once  more  my  hopes  were 
raised.  Do  not  shrink  back!  human  nature  is  complex. 
I  swear  I  did  net  desire  my  brother's  death,  but  he  was 
dying,  and  I  did  desire  the  power  that  would  come  to  me. 

"It  was  near,  in  my  very  hand;  and,  mark  you,  I  was 
unjustly  used  by  fortune.  I  was  given  faculties  that  I 
could  never  develop,  hopes  never  to  be  fulfilled,  visions 
never  to  be  grasped.  Good  heavens!  the  bitterness  of  that 
moment  is  engraven  on  my  brain!  All  shattered  in  a 
moment,  I  knew  that  I  was  again  what  I  had  been  before 
—  that  that  woman  was  my  brother's  wife,  that  child  his 
lawful  heir." 

"You  knew  it?"     Perdita  recoiled  from  him. 

"  Listen;  despise  me  as  you  will,  but  hear  mo  to  the 
end.  It  was  night,  my  mother  was  asleep,  not  a  creature 
stirring  in  the  house,  no  human  being  shared  the  tumult 
of  my  soul,  no  prayer  for  me  was  going  up  to  Heaven,  and 
1  had  to  fight  the  fight  alone  with  a  tempter  who  called 
to  his  aid  every  jealous  thought,  every  devil  that  had 
triumphed  in  my  soul  since  I  had  grown  to  hate  my 
brother.  I  rose  up  and  paced  my  room.  It  was  a 
wonderful  moonlit  night — there  was  light  for  my  purpose. 
I  crossed  the  loch;  the  keys  fitted;  I  took  the  papers  from 
old  Malcolm's  care,  and  filled  the  packet  with  blank  paper, 
gealed  it  with  this,  my  brother's  sisuet-ring,  and  home," 


162  DITA. 

Perdita  leant  back  in  her  chair,  her  face  covered  with 
her  hands.  He  went  on: — 

"I  never  destroyed  the  papers,  remember!  I  would  not 
have  done  that."  The  man's  warped  nature  always  dwelt 
on  this  as  on  a  merit;  his  voice  became  hoarse.  "  They 
came  with  their  proofs,  and  I  had  to  sit  there,  and  see  her 
heart  break  before  my  eyes;  but  I  bore  it, — I  had  strength 
then,  it  is  gone  now.  AncLsince  I  have  seen  you,  I  see 
again  her  haunting  eyes,  appealing  first,  then  wild  with 
a  terrible  despair.  She  went  away, — hide  your  face;  do 
not  look  at  me, — she  went  away.  I  wrote  to  her  un- 
known to  all.  I  sent  her  a  hundred,  then  two  hundred 
pounds.  It  never  reached  her,  for  before  then  she  was 
dead;  she  died  of  a  broken  heart.  If  she  had  lived — I 
do  not  know — I  might  have  righted  her;  but  she  died, 
leaving  a  nameless  pauper  child." 

Perdita  sprang  from  her  chair  and  stood  looking  at 
him  with  dilated  eyes  and  panting  breath.  He  breathed 
hard,  and  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice  went  on: — 

"  Years  passed,  and  I  suppose  that  I  must  have  for- 
gotten her,  but  I  was  not  happy.  Not  in  all  myjife  have 
I  been  what  the  world  calls  happy.  I  have  been  haunted 
by  the  past;  the  reasonings  of  years  never  laid  the  specter 
of  remorse,  and  when  I  had  schooled  my  life  to  a  calm 
and  even  level,  now  and  then  would  come  over  me  a  cold 
nervous  shiver,  an  agony  of  fear,  and  it  was  long  before  I 
was  myself  again.  Years  passed, — you  know  the  rest." 

Perdita  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

'•'  I  had  an  idle  dream  that  a  young  sweet  wife  would 
lull  these  thoughts  to  rest.  I  thought, believe  me,  I  thought 
indeed  that  my  brother's  child  was  dead.  I  taught  my- 
self to  be  certain  that  it  was  so.  I  brought  her  home  to 
Dunmonaigh,  my  little  wife,  and  then  I  prayed.  I  asked 
God  to  let  me  love  her,  and  let  her  sweet  nature  soften 
the  cold  hardness  of  my  heart.  I  prayed,  but  I  had  not 
made  restitution,  and  my  prayer  was  denied!" 

Perdita  softly  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  knew  Mabel,"  he  went  on;  "  you  knew  what  she 
was — how  sweet,  and  young,  and  gay!  You  can  recall  her 
image,  with  her  soft  hair  and  her  loving  eyes.  Who 
could  see  her  and  not  love  her!  And  yet  I  was  hard  and 
harsh  to  her.  Too  long  self-suppressed,  I  dreaded  emo- 


DITA.  1G3 

tion.  I  dared  not  give  rein  to  any  feeling,  whether  of 
joy  or  hope  or  love.  I  was  cold  to  her.  I  did  not  even 
love  her  then,  for  a  barrier  seemed  to  keep  ns  apart.  She 
did  not  understand  me,  and  I  dreaded  lest  she  should. 
I  prayed  then,  but  my  prayer  was  denied." 

He  paused,  panting,  then  went  on: — 

"Then — then,  you  know,  she  found  those  papers;  and 
— oh  God! — the  discovery  killed  her.  My  mother  uttered 
words  that  never  will  leave  my  memory — '  First  Assunta, 
now  Mabel.'  I  was  shooting  on  Benichon,  and  they  bid 
me  come  home,  and  I  was  too  late:  not  one  word — not  one. 
My  God  was  a  Nemesis.  1  have  not  known  one  moment's 
rest  since  my  wife  died." 

Angus  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  wept  with 
the  awful  overwhelming  grief  of  a  strong  man  crushed. 
Perdita,  terrified  and  in  sore  trouble,  knew  not  what  to 
do,  but  gently  stroked  his  knee. 

Presently  he  raised  his  head,  and  took  her  hand  in  both 
of  his.  "  I  have  but  one  hope  in  life  now,"  he  said,  "  and 
that  is,  that  you,  in  their  names  and  your  own,  will  for- 
give me." 

"I  do — I  forgive  you,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven;  and  in 
my  father's  and  my  mother's  names  I  pray  to  God  to  for- 
give you  freely." 

He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  then  rose  up. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said — "I  am  going  abroad;  perhaps  I 
may  never  return  again.  You  will  take  care  of  my 
mother,  will  you  not?" 

"I  will  indeed." 

"  And  try  to  be  to  her  what  she  was?" 

"  I  will  try." 

He  looked  at  her  very  wistfully.  "  Perdita,"  he  said, 
"you  loved  Mabel;  you  knew  her  very  well;  tell  me,  was 
she  very  unhappy?" 

Perdita  could  not  speak,  the  tears  rained  down  her 
cheeks.  She  had  only  had  one  little  heart-broken  note 
from  Mabel;  telling  her  that  marriage  was  a  sad  and 
miserable  thing.  Angus  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"Do  not  answer  me,"  he  said,  "only  say  good-by;  I 
must  go." 

Once  more  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  left  the  room. 

Perdita  sat  down:  she  was  utterly  bewildered  by  all  that 


164  DITA. 

had  passed,  and  strove  to  collect  her  thoughts.  Her 
whole  mind  being  intent  on  the  one  subject,  she  did  not 
hear  a  rapid  foot  cross  the  room,  and  did  not  look  up  till 
Edward  Norton  stood  before*her.  In  one  moment  she  was 
sobbing  cm  his  breast.  All,  all  had  passed  away — this 
terrible  story  of  guilt  and  sorrow  and  bereavement — and 
a  new  and  boundless  heaven  of  joy  was  opening  before 
her.  To  her  life's  end  Perdita  Maemonaeh  faithfully 
kept  the  unhappy  Augus's  secret. 

The  next  morning  Perdita  was  taken  to  Lady  Armine'i 
house  to  see  Lady  Grisel. 

It  was  a  very  sad  meeting  at  first;  all  the  black  dress 
and  sad  faces  brought  poor  pretty  Mabel  vividly  to  Per- 
dita'smind.  In  spite  of  the  new  bright  joy  that  seemed 
to  transform  her,  she  could  not  suppress  her  tears  when 
Lady  Grisel  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.  Those 
tears  won  the  lonely  woman's  heart  at  once.  She  had 
felt  as  if  she  could  never  love  another  fair  young  girl  as 
she  had  loved  her  daughter-in-law.  She  felt  almost  jeal- 
ous of  a  youth  and  beauty  that  might  try  to  rival  Mabel 
in  her  love.  But  she  found  not  a  rival  but  a  fellow- 
mourner  who  had  known  Mabel,  and  whom  Mabel  had 
often  spoken  of  as  "so  beautiful  and  so  charming." 

Then  came  a  new  sense  of  possession,  for  at  once  the 
mother's  eye  caught  the  strong  resemblance  to  her  hand- 
some son.  The  fair  brow,  the  curve  of  lip  and  chin — all 
brought  Ewan  to  her  mind  so  much,  that  it  seemed  as  if 
she  would  never  weary  of  tracing  every  line  in  Perdita's 
face. 

Lady  Grisel  was  anxious  that  the  two  weddings  should 
be  soon — before  the  winter  came.  They  must  be  very 
quiet,  and  take  place  in  London. 

The  lawyers  demanded  at  least  six  weeks  to  arrange 
Perdita's  elaborate  settlements;  and  when  this  was  to  be 
done,  Andrew  told  his  own  views  for  the  future.  He 
absolutely  refused  to  return  to  Salford.  He  said  he  could 
never  bear  the  place  without  his  wife,  and  he  could  only 
be  thankful  that  now  his  duty  need  not  compel  him  to  go 
there.  He  would  live  in  London  with  Jaques.  The 
estate  should  be  absolutely  settled  on  Perdita  and  her 
husband. 

On  a  cold  brilliant  day  in  the  first  days  of  November, 


DITA.  165 

all  signs  of  mourning  were  put  aside,  and  Margaret  Gris- 
elda  Macmonach  and  Mildred  G  ret  hard  were  married. 

There  were  anxious  loving  prayers  going  up  to  God  all 
day:  -smiles  for  the  present,  and  tears  for  the  past. 

On  Mabel's  grave  Angus  had  caused  a  stone  of  marble, 
white  and  pure  as  driven  snow,  to  be  placed,  and  on  it,  in 
small  letters,  carved  — 

MABEL  MACMONACH, 

Aged  20  years, 

HER  INFANT  SON. 


"  Weep  ye  not  for  the  dead,  neither  bemoan  him: 
but  weep  sore  for  him  that  goeth  away;  for  h« 
shall  return  no  more,  nor  see  Iris  native  country." 


THE  END. 


The  Ghost  of  Charlotte  Cray. 


MR.  SIGISMUND  BRAGGETT  was  sitting  in  the  little  room 
he  called  his  study,  wrapped  in  a  profound — not  to  say  a 
mournful — reverie.  Now,  there  was  nothing  in  the 
present  life  nor  surroundings  of  Mr.  Braggett  to  account 
for  such  a  demonstration.  He  was  a  publisher  and  book- 
seller; a  man  well  to  do,  with  a  thriving  business  in  the 
city,  and  the  prettiest  of  all  pretty  villas  at  Streatham. 
And  he  was  only  just  turned  forty;  had  not  a  gray  hair 
in  his  head  nor  a  false  tooth  in  his  mouth;  and  had  been 
married  but  three  short  months  to  one  of  the  fairest  and 
most  affectionate  specimens  of  English  womanhood  that 
ever  transformed  a  bachelor's  quarters  into  Paradise. 

What  more  could  Mr.  Sigismnnd  Braggett  possibly 
want?  Nothing!  His  trouble  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
got  rather  more  than  he  wanted.  Most  of  us  have  our 
little  peccadilloes  in  this  world — awkward  reminiscences 
that  we  would  like  to  bury  five  fathoms  deep,  and  never 
hear  mentioned  again,  but  that  have  an  uncomfortable 
habit  of  cropping  up  at  the  most  inconvenient  moments; 
and  no  mortal  is  more  likely  to  be  troubled  with  them 
than  a  middle-aged  bachelor  who  has  taken  to  matrimony. 

Mr.  Sigismund  Braggett  had  no  idea  what  he  was  going 
in  for  when  he  led  the  blushing  Emily  Primrose  up  to  the 
altar  and  swore  to  be  hers,  and  hers  only,  until  death 
should  them  part.  He  had  no  conception  a  woman's 
curiosity  could  be  so  keen,  her  tongue  so  long,  and  her 
inventive  faculties  so  correct.  He  had  spent  whole  days 
before  the  fatal  moment  of  marriage  in  burning  letters, 
erasing  initials,  destroying  locks  of  hair,  and  making  offer- 
ings of  affection  look  as  if  he  had  purchased  them  with 
his  own  money.  But  it  had  been  of  little  avail.  Mrs. 
Braggett  had  swooped  down  upon  him  like  a  beautiful 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRA.Y. 

bird  of  prey,  and  wheedled,  coaxed,  or  kissed  him  out  of 
half  his  secrets  before  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  But 
he  had  never  told  her  about  Charlotte  Cray.  And  now 
he  almost  wished  that  he  had  done  so,  for  Charlotte  Cray 
was  the  cause  of  his  present  dejected  mood. 

Now,  there  are  ladies  and  Indies  in  this  world.  Some 
are  very  shy,  and  will  only  permit  themselves  to  be  wooed 
by  stealth.  Others,  again,  are  the  pursuers  rather  than 
the  pursued,  and  chase  the  wounded  or  the  flying  even  to 
the  very  doors  of  their  stronghold,  or  lie  in  wait  for  them 
like  an  octopus,  stretching  out  their  tentacles  on  every 
side  in  search  of  victmis. 

And  to  the  latter  class  Miss  Charlotte  Cray  decidedly 
belonged.  Not  a  person  worth  mourning  over,  you  will 
ir.iturally  say.  Bat,  then,  Mr.  Sigismund  Braggett  had 
not  behaved  well  to  her.  She  was  one  of  the  "  peccadil- 
loes." She  was  an  authoress— not  an  author,  mind  you, 
which  term  smacks  more  of  the  profession  than  the  sex — 
but  an  "authoress,"  with  lots  of  the  "ladylike"  about 
the  plots  of  her  stories  and  meter  of  her  rhymes.  They 
had  come  together  in  the  sweet  connection  of  publisher 
and  writer — had  met  first  in  a  dingy,  dusty  little  office  at 
the  back  of  his  house  of  business,  and  laid  the  foundation 
of  their  friendship  with  the  average  amount  of  chaffering 
and  prevarication  that  usually  attend  such  proceedings. 

Mr.  Braggett  ran  a  risk  in  publishing  Miss  Cray's 
tales  or  verses,  but  he  found  her  useful  in  so  many  other 
ways  that  he  used  occasionally  to  hold  forth  a  sop  to 
Cerberus  in  the  shape  of  publicity  for  the  sake  of  keeping 
her 'in  his  employ.  For  Miss  Charlotte  Cray — who  was 
as  old  as  himself,  and  had  arrived  at  the  period  of  life 
when  women  are  said  to  pray  "Any,  good  Lord,  any!" 
— was  really  a  clever  woman,  and  could  turn  her  hand 
to  most  things  required  of  her,  or  upon  which  she  had 
set  her  mind;  and  she  had  most  decidedly  set  her  mind 
upon  marrying  Mr.  Braggett,  and  lie — to  serve  his  own 
purposes — had  permitted  her  to  cherish  the  idea,  and  this 
was  the  Nemesis  that  was  weighing  him  down  in  the 
study  at  the  present  moment.  He  had  complimented 
Miss  Cray,  and  given  her  present?,  and  taken  her  out 
a-pleasuring,  all  because  she  was  useful  to  him,  and  did 
odd  jobs  that  no  one  else  would  undertake,  and  for  less 
than  any  one  else  would  have  accepted;  and  he  had  known 


THE  <;F    CSAtlLOTTB    CRAY.  5 

the  while  that  she  was  in  love  with  him,  and  that  she  be- 
lieved lie  was  in  love  with  her. 

He  had  not  thought  much  of  it  at  the  time.  He  had 
not  then  made  up  his  mind  to  marry  Emily  Primrose,  and 
considered  that  what  pleased  Miss  Cray,  and  harmed  no 
one  else,  was  fair  play  for  all  sides.  But  he  had  come  to 
see  things  differently  now.  He  had  been  married  three 
months,  and  the  first  two  weeks  had  been  very  bitter  ones 
to  him.  Miss  Cray  had  written  him  torrents  of  reproaches 
during  that  unhappy  period,  besides  calling  day  after  day 
at  his  office  to  deliver  them  in  person.  This  and  her 
threats  had  frightened  him  out  of  his  life.  He  had  lived 
in  hourly  terror  lest  the  clerks  should  overhear  what 
passed  at  their  interviews,  or  that  his  wife  should  be  made 
acquainted  with  them. 

He  had  implored  Miss  Cray,  both  by  word  of  mouth 
and  letter,  to  cease  her  persecution  of  him;  but  all  tho 
reply  he  received  was  thjit  he  was  a  base  and  perjured 
man,  and  that  she  should  continue  to  call  at  his  office, 
and  write  to  him  through  the  penny  post,  until  he  had 
introduced  her  to  his  wife.  For  therein  lay  the  height 
and  depth  of  his  offending.  He  had  been  afraid  to  bring 
Emily  and  Miss  Cray  together,  and  the  latter  resented 
the  omission  as  an  insult.  It  was  bad  enough  to  find  that 
Sigismund  Braggett,  whose  hair  she  wore  next  her  heart, 
and  whose  photograph  stood  as  in  a  shrine  upon  her  bed- 
room mantelpiece,  had  married  another  woman,  without 
giving  her  even  the  chance  of  a  refusal,  but  it  was  worse 
still  to  come  to  a  conclusion  that  he  did  not  intend  her  to 
have  a  glimpse  into  the  garden  of  Eden  he  had  created 
for  himself. 

Miss  Cray  was  a  lady  of  vivid  imagination  and  strong 
aspirations.  All  was  not  lost  in  her  ideas,  although  Mr. 
Braggett  had  proved  false  to  the  hopes  he  had  raised. 
Wives  did  not  live  for  ever;  and  the  chances  and  changes 
of  this  life  were  so  numerous,  that  stranger  things  had 
happened  than  that  Mr.  Braggett  might  think  fit  to  make 
bett'er  use  of  the  second  opportunity  afforded  him  than  he 
had  done  of  the  first.  But  if  she  were  not  to  continue 
even  his  friend,  it  was  too  hard.  But  the  perjured  pub- 
lisher had  continued  resolute,  notwithstanding  all  Miss 
Cray's  presecution,  and  now  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard 
from  her  for  a  month;  and,  man-like,  he  was  beginning 


6  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

to  wonder  what  had  become  of  her,  and  whether  she  had 
found  anybody  to  console  her  for  his  untruth.  Mr.  Brag- 
gett  did  not  wish  to  comfort  Miss  Cray  himself;  but  he 
did  aot  quite  like  the  notion  of  her  being  comforted. 

After  all — so  he  soliloquized — he  had  been  very  cruel  to 
her;  for  the  poor  thing  was  devoted  to  him.  How  her 
eyes  used  to  sparkle  and  her  cheek  to  flush  when  she  en- 
tered his  office,  and  how  eagerly  she  would  undertake  any 
•work  for  him,  however  disagreeable  to  perform!  He  knew 
well  that  she  had  expected  to  be  Mrs.  Braggett,  and  it  must, 
have  been  a  terrible  disappointment  to  her  when  he  mar- 
ried Emily  Primrose. 

Why  had  he  not  asked  her  out  to  Violet  Villa  since? 
What  harm  could  she  do  as  a  visitor  there?  particularly  if 
lie  cautioned  her  first  as  to  the  peculiarity  of  Mrs.  Brag- 
get  t's  disposition,  and  the  quickness  with  which  her 
jealousy  was  excited.  It  was  close  upon  Christmas-time, 
the  period  when  all  old  friends  meet  together  and  patch  up, 
if  they  cannot  entirely  forget,  everything  that  has  an- 
noyed them  in  the  past.  Mr.  Braggett  pictured  to  him- 
self the  poqr  old  maid  sitting  solitary  in  her  small  rooms 
at  Hammersmith,  no  longer  able  to  live  in  the  expectation 
of  seeing  his  manly  form  at  the  wicket-gate,  about  to  en- 
ter and  cheer  her  solitude.  The  thought  smote  him  as  a 
two-edged  swo:-d,  and  he  sat  down  at  once  and  penned 
Miss  Charlotte  a  note,  in  which  he  inquired  after  her 
health,  and  hoped  that  they  should  soon  see  her  at  Violet 
Villa. 

He  felt  much  better  after  this  note  was  written  and 
dispatched.  He  came  out  of  the  little  study  and  entered 
the  cheerful  drawing-room,  and  sat  with  his  pretty  wife  by 
the  light  of  the  fire,  telling  her  of  the  lonely  lady  to  whom 
be  had  just  proposed  to  introduce  her. 

"An  old  friend  of  mine,  Emily.  A  clever,  agreeable 
woman,  though  rather  eccentric.  You  will  be  polite  to 
her,  I  know,  for  my  sake." 

"An  old  woman,  is  she?"  said  Mrs.  Braggett,  elevating 
her  eyebrows.  "And  what  do  you  call  'old/  Siggy,  I 
should  like  to  know?" 

"Twice  as  old  as  yourself,  my  dear — five-anil- forty  at 
the  very  least,  and  not  personable-looking,  even  for  that 
age.  Yet  I  think  you  will  find  her  a  pleasant  companion, 
and  I  am  sure  she  will  be  enchanted  with  you." 


THE    GHOST    OP    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  7 

"  I  don't  know  that:  clever  women  don't  like  me,  as  a 
rule,  though  I  don't  know  why." 

"  They  are  jealous  of  your  beauty,  my  darling;  but  Miss 
Cray  is  above  such  meanness,  and  will  value  you  for  your 
own  sake." 

"  She'd  better  not  let  me  catch  her  valuing  me  for 
yours,1"  responded  Mrs.  Braggett,  with  a  flash  of  the  eye 
that  made  her  husband  ready  to  regret  the  dangerous  ex- 
periment he  was  about  to  make  of  bringing  together  two 
women  who  had  each,  in  her  own  way,  a  claim  upon  him, 
and  each  the  will  to  maintain  it. 

So  he  dropped  the  subject  of  Miss  Charlotte  Cray,  and 
took  to  admiring  his  wife's  complexion  instead,  so  that 
the  evening  passed  harmoniously,  and  both  parties  were 
satisfied. 

For  two  days  Mr.  Braggett  received  no  answer  from 
Miss  Cray,  which  rather  surprised  him.  He  had  quite 
expected  that  on  the  reception  of  his  invitation  she  would 
rush  down  to  his  office  and  into  his  arms,  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  ground- glass  door  that  inclosed  his  chair  of 
authority.  For  Miss  Charlotte  had  been  used  on  occa- 
sions to  indulge  in  rapturous  demonstrations  of  the  sort, 
and  the  remembrance  of  Mrs.  Braggett  located  in  Violet 
Villa  would  have  been  no  obstacle  whatever  to  her.  She 
believed  she  had  a  prior  claim  to  Mr.  Braggett  How- 
ever, nothing  of  the  kind  happened,  and  the  perjured 
publisher  was  becoming  strongly  imbued  with  the  idea 
that  he  must  go  out  to  Hammersmith  and  see  if  he  could 
not  make  his  peace  with  her  in  person,  particularly  as  he 
had  several  odd  jobs  for  Christmastide,  which  no  one 
could  undertake  so  well  as  herself,  when  a  letter  with  a 
black-edged  border  was  put  into  his  hand.  He  opened  it 
mechanically,  not  knowing  the  writing;  but  its  contents 
shocked  him  beyond  measure. 

"HONORED  SIR, — I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  Miss  Cray  died  at 
my  house  ;i  week  ago,  and  was  buried  yesterday.  She  spoke  of  you 
leveral  times  during  her  last  illness,  and  if  you  would  like  to  hear 
any  further  particulars,  and  will  call  on  me  at  the  old  address,  I 
shall  be  most  happy  to  furnish  you  with  them. — Yours  respectfully, 

"  MARY  THOMPSON." 

When  Mr.  Braggett  read  this  news,  you  might  have 
knocked  him  over  with  a  feather.  It  is  not  always  true 
that  a  living  dog  is  better  than  a  dead  liou.  Some  people 


8  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

gain  considerably  in  the  estimation  of  their  friends  by 
leaving  this  world,  and  Miss  Charlotte  Cray  was  one  of 
them.  Her  persecution  had  ceased  for  ever,  and  her 
amiable  weaknesses  were  alone  held  in  romembrance. 
Mr.  Braggett  felt  a  positive  relief  in  the  knowledge  that 
his  dead  friend  and  his  wife  would  never  now  be 
^  brought  in  contact  with  each  other;  but  at  the  same 
time  he  blamed  himself  more  than  was  needful,  per- 
haps, for  not  having  seen  nor  communicated  with  Miss 
Cray  for  so  long  before  her  death.  He  came  down  to 
breakfast  with  a  portentously  grave  face  that  morning, 
and  imparted  the  sad  intelligence  to  Mrs.  Braggett  with 
the  air  of  an  undertaker.  Emily  wondered,  pitied,  and 
sympathized,  but  the  dead  lady  was  no  more  to  her  than 
any  other  stranger;  and  she  was  surprised  her  husband 
looked  so  solemn  over  it  all.  Mr.  Braggett,  however, 
could  not  dismiss  the  subject  easily  from  his  mind.  It 
haunted  him  during  the  business  hours  of  the  morning, 
and  as  soon  as  he  could  conveniently  leave  his  office,  lie 
posted  away  to  Hammersmith.  The  little  house  in  which 
Miss  Cray  used  to  live  looked  just  the  same,  both  inside 
and  outside:  how  strange  it  seemed  that  she  should  have 
flown  away  from  it  for  ever!  And  here  was  her  landlady, 
Mrs.  Thompson,  bobbing  and  courtesy  ing  to  him  in  the 
same  old  black  net  cap  with  artificial  flowers  in  it,  and 
the  same  stuff  gown  she  had  worn  since  he  first  saw  her, 
with  her  apron  in  her  hand,  it  is  true,  ready  to  go  to  her 
eyes  as  soon  as  a  reasonable  opportunity  occurred,  but 
otherwise  the  same  Mrs.  Thompson  as  before.  And  yet 
she  would  never  wait  upon  her  again: 

"  It  was  all  so  sudden,  sir,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  Mr. 
Braggett's  inquiries,  "  that  there  was  no  time  to  send  for 
nobody." 

"But  Miss  Cray  had  my  address." 

"Ah!  perhaps  so;  but  she  was  off  her  head,  poor  dear, 
and  couldn't  think  jf  nothing.  But  she  remembered 
you,  sir,  to  the  last;  for  the  very  morning  she  died,  sho 
sprung  up  in  bed  and  called  out,  '  Sigismund!  Sigismund!' 
as  loud  as  ever  she  could,  and  she  never  spoke  to  anybody 
afterward,  not  one  word." 

"She  left  no  message  for  me?" 

"None,  sir.  I  asked  her  the  day  before  she  went  if  I 
was  to  say  nothing  to  you  for  her  (knowing  you  was  such 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTi'E    CRAY.  9 

friends),  and  all  her  answer  was,  '  I  wrote  to  him.  He's 
got  my  letter.'  So  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  had  heard, 
sir." 

"  Not  for  some  time  past.  It  seems  terribly  sudden  to 
me,  not  having  heard  even  of  her  illness.  Where  is  she 
buried?" 

"  Close  by  in  the  churchyard,  sir.  My  little  girl  will 
go  with  you  and  show  you  the  place,  if  you'd  like  to  see 
it." 

Mr.  Braggett  accepted  her  offer  and  left. 

When  lie  was  standing  by  a  heap  of  clods  they  called  a 
grave,  and  had  dismissed  the  child,  he  drew  out  Miss 
Cray's  last  letter,  which  he  carried  in  his  pocket,  and 
read  it  over. 

"  You  tell  me  that  I  am  not  to  call  at  your  office  again,  except  on 
business  "  (so  it  ran),  "  nor  to  send  letters  to  your  private  address, 
lest  it  should  come  to  the  knowledge  of  your  wife,  and  create  un- 
pleasantness between  you;  but  I  shall  call,  and  I  shall  write,  until  I 
have  seen  Mrs.  Braggett,  and,  if  you  don't  take  care,  I  will  intro- 
duce myself  to  her  and  tell  her  the  reason  you  have  been  afraid  to 
do  so." 

This  letter  had  made  Mr.  Braggett  terribly  angry  at 
the  time  of  reception.  He  had  puffed  and  fumed,  and 
cursed  Miss  Charlotte  by  all  his  gods  for  daring  to  threaten 
him.  But  he  read  it  with  different  feelings  now  Miss 
Charlotte  was  down  there,  six  feet  beneath  the  ground  he 
stood  on,  and  he  could  feel  only  compassion  for  her  frenzy, 
and  resentment  against  himself  for  having  excited  it.  As 
he  traveled  home  from  Hammersmith  to  Streatham,  he 
was  a  very  dejected  publisher  indeed. 

He  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Braggett  the  reason  of  his  melan- 
choly, but  it  affected  him  to  that  degree  that  he  could  not 
go  to  office  on  the  following  day,  but  stayed  at  home  in- 
stead, to  be  petted  and  waited*  upon  by  his  pretty  wife, 
which  treatment  resulted  in  a  complete  cure.  The  next 
morning,  therefore,  he  started  for  London  as  briskly  as 
ever,  and  arrived  at  office  before  his  usual  time.  A  clerk, 
deputed  to  receive  all  messages  for  his  master,  followed 
him  behind  the  ground-glass  doors,  with  a  packet  of  let- 
ters. 

"  Mr.  Van  Ower  was  here  yesterday,  sir.  He  will  let 
you  have  the  copy  before  the  end  of  the  week,  and  Messrs. 
Hanley's  foreman  called  on  particular  business,  and  will 


10  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

look  in  to-day  at  eleven.  And  Mr.  Ellis  came  to  ask  if 
there  was  any  answer  to  his  letter  yet;  and  Miss  Cray 
called,  sir;  and  that's  all." 

"  Wlio  did  you  say?''  cried  Braggett. 

"  Miss  Cray,  sir.  She  waited  for  yon  above  an  hour, 
but  I  told  her  I  thought  you  couldn't  mean  to  come  into 
town  at  all,  so  she  went." 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Hewetson? 
You  said  Miss  Cray  /" 

"  And  I  meant  it,  sir — Miss  Charlotte  Cray.  Burns 
spoke  to  her  as  well  as  I." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Braggett,  turning  as 
white  as  a  sheet.  "Go  at  once  and  send  Burns  to  me." 
Burns  came. 

"Burns,  who  was  the  lady  that  called  to  see  me  yester- 
day?" 

"  Miss  Cray,  sir.  She  had  a  very  thick  veil  on,  and  she 
looked  so  pale  that  I  asked  her  if  she  had  been  ill,  and 
she  said  'Yes.'  She  sat  in  the  office  for  over  an  hour, 
hoping  you'd  come  in,  but  as  you  didn't,  she  went  away 
again." 

"Did  she  lift  her  veil?" 

"  Not  whilst  I  spoke  to  her,  sir." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  was  Miss  Cray,  then?" 

The  clerk  stared.  "  Well,  sir,  we  all  know  her  pretty 
well  by  this  time." 

"Did  you  ask  her  name?" 

"No,  sir;  there  was  no  need  to  do  it.'* 

"You're  mistaken,  that's  all,  both  you  and  Hewetson. 
It  couldn't  have  been  Miss  Cray!  I  know  for  certain 
that  she  is — is — is — not  in  London  at  present.  It  must 
have  been  a  stranger." 

"  It  was  not,  indeed,  sir,  begging  your  pardon.  I  could 
tell  Miss  Cray  anywhere,  by  her  figure  and  her  voice,  with- 
out seeing  her  face.  But  I  did  see  her  face,  and  remarked 
how  awfully  pale  she  was — just  like  death,  sir!" 

"  There!  there!  that  will  do!  It's  of  no  consequence, 
and  you  can  go  back  to  your  work." 

But  any  one  who  had  seen  Mr.  Braggett,  when  left 
alone  in  hia  office,  would  not  have  said  he  thought  the 
matter  of  no  consequence.  The  perspiration  broke  out 
upon  his  forehead,  although  it  was  December,  and  ho 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  11 

rocked  himself  backward  and  forward  in  his  chair  with 
agitation. 

At  last  he  rose  hurriedly,  upset  his  throne,  and  dashed 
through  the  outer  premises  in  the  face  of  twenty  people 
waiting  to  speak  to  him.  As  soon  as  he  could  find  his 
voice,  he  hailed  a  hansom,  and  drove  to  Hammersmith. 
Good  Mrs.  Thompson  opening  the  door  to  him,  thought 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  just  come  out  of  a  fever. 

' '  Lor'  bless  me,  sir!  whatever's  the  matter?" 

"  Mrs.  Thompson,  have  you  told  me  the  truth  aboufc 
Miss  Cray?  Is  she  really  dead?" 

"Really  dead,  sir!  Why,  I  closed  her  eyes,  and  put  her 
in  the  coffin  with  my  own  hands!  If  she  ain't  dead,  I 
don't  know  who  is!  But  if  you  doubt  my  word,  you'd 
better  ask  the  doctor  that  gave  the  certificate  for  her." 

•'•'  What  is  the  doctor's  name?" 

"Dodson;  he  lives  opposite." 

"You  must  forgive  my  strange  questions,  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son, but  I  have  had  a  terrible  dream  about  my  poor  friend, 
and  I  think  I  should  like  to  talk  to  the  doctor  about  her.'' 

"Oh,  very  good,  sir,"  cried  the  landlady,  much  offend- 
ed. "I'm  not  afraid  of  what  the  doctor  will  tell  you. 
She  had  excellent  nursing  and  everything  as  she  could 
desire,  and  there's  nothing  on  my  conscience  on  that 
score,  so  I'll  wish  you  good  morning."  And  with  that 
Mrs.  Thompson  slammed  the  door  in  Mr.  Braggett's  face. 

He  found  Dr.  Dodson  at  home. 

"  If  I  understand  you  rightly,"  said  the  practitioner, 
looking  rather  steadfastly  in  the  scared  face  of  his  visitor, 
"you  wish,  as  a  friend  of  the  late  Miss  Cray's,  to  see  a 
copy  of  the  certificate  of  her  death?  Very  good,  sir; 
here  it  is.  She  died,  as  you  will  perceive,  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  November,  of  peritonitis.  She  had,  I  can  assure 
you,  every  attention  and  care,  but  nothing  could  have 
saved  her." 

"You  are  quite  sure,  then,  she  is  dead?"  demanded  Mr. 
Braggett,  in  a  vague  manner. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  not  quite  sure 
if  he  were  sane. 

"If  seeing  a  patient  die,  and  her  corpse  coffined  and 
buried,  is  being  sure  she  is  dead,  /am  in  no  doubt  what- 
ever about  Miss  Cray." 

"  It  is  very  strange — most  strange  and  unaccountable/' 


12  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

murmured  poor  Mr.  Braggetfc,  in  reply,  as  he  shuffled  out 
of  the  doctor's  passage,  and  took  his  way  back  to  the 
office. 

Here,  however,  after  an  interval  of  rest  and  a  strong 
brandy  and  soda,  he  managed  to  pull  himself  together, 
and  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  doctor  and  Mrs. 
Thompson  could  not  be  mistaken,  and  that,  consequently, 
the  clerks  must.  He  did  not  mention  the  subject  again 
to  them,  however;  and  as  the  days  went  on,  and  nothing 
more  was  heard  of  the  mysterious  stranger's  visit,  Mr. 
Braggett  put  it  altogether  out  of  his  mind. 

At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  however,  when  he  was  think- 
ing of  something  totally  different,  young  Hewetson  re- 
marked to  him,  carelessly, — 

"  Miss  Cray  was  here  again  yesterday,  sir.  She  walked 
in  just  as  your  cab  had  left  the  door." 

All  the  horror  of  his  first  suspicions  returned  with 
double  force  upon  the  unhappy  man's  mind. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense!"  he  gasped,  angrily,  as  soon  as 
he  could  speak.  "  Don't  attempt  to  play  any  of  your 
tricks  on  me,  young  man,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you, 
1  can  tell  you." 

•'Tricks,  sir,"  stammered  the  clerk.  "I  don't  know 
what  yon  are  alluding  to.  I  am  only  telling  you  the  truth. 
You  have  always  desired  me  to  be  most  particular  in  let- 
ting you  know  the  names  of  the  people  who  call  in  your 
absence,  and  I  thought  I  was  only  doing  my  duty  in  mak- 
ing a  point  of  ascertaining  them " 

"Yes,  yes!  Hewetson,  of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Brag- 
gett, passing  his  handkerchief  over  his  brow,  "and  you 
are  quite  right  in  following  my  directions  as  closely  as 
possible;  only — in  this  case  you  are  completely  mistaken, 
and  it  is  the  second  time  you  have  committed  the  error." 

"Mistaken!" 

"Yes! — as  mistaken  as  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  bo! 
Miss  Cray  could  not  have  called  at  this  office  yesterday." 

"'But  she  did,  sir." 

"Am  I  laboring  under  some  horrible  nightmare?"  ex- 
claimed the  publisher,  "  or  are  we  playing  at  cross  pur- 
poses? Can  yon  mean  the  Miss  Cray  I  mean?" 

"I  am  speaking  of  Miss  Charlotte  Cray,  sir,  the  author 
of  'Sweet  Gwendoline,' — the  lady  who  has  undertaken  so 
much  of  our  compilation  the  last  two  years,  and  who  haa 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  13 

along  nose,  and  wears  her  hair  in  curls.  I  never  knew 
there  was  another  Miss  Cray;  but  if  there  are  two,  that  is 
the  one  I  mean." 

"Still  T  at/mot  believe  it.  Hewetson,  for  the  Miss  Cray 
who  has  been  associated  with  our  3rm  died  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  last  month." 

"Dial,  sir!  Is  Miss  Cray  dead?  Oh,  it  can't  be!  It's 
some  humbugging  trick  that's  been  played  upon  you,  for 
I'd  swear  she  was  in  this  room  yesterday  afternoon,  as 
full  of  life  as  she's  ever  been  since  I  knew  her.  She  didn't 
talk  much,  it's  true,  for  she  seemed  in  a  hurry  to  be  off 
again,  but  she  had  got  on  the  same  dress  and  bonnet  she 
was  in  here  last,  and  she  made  herself  as  much  at  home  in 
the  office  as  she  ever  did.  Besides,"  continued  Hewetson, 
as  tho.igh  suddenly  remembering  something,  "she  left  a 
note  for  you,  sir." 

'•  A  note!     "Why  did  you  not  say  so  before?" 

"  It  slipped  my  memory  when  you  began  to  doubt  my 
word  in  that  way,  sir.  But  you'll  find  it  in  the  bronze 
vase.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  she  had  placed  it  there." 

Mr.  Braggett  made  a  dash  at  the  vase,  and  found  the 
three-cornered  note  as  he  had  been  told.  Yes!  it  was 
Charlotte's  handwriting,  or  the  facsimile  of  it,  there  was 
no  doubt  of  that;  and  his  hands  shook  so  he  could  hardly 
open  the  paper.  It  contained  these  words: 

"  You  tell  me  that  I  am  not  to  call  at  your  office  again,  except  on 
business,  nor  to  send  letters  to  your  private  address,  lest  it  should 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  your  wife,  and  create  unpleasantness 
en  you;  but  I  ahaR  calf,  and  I  flmll  write  until  1  have  seen 
Mrs.  Braggett,  and  if  you  don't  take  care  I  will  introduce  myself  to 
her,  and  tell  her  the  reason  3*011  have  been  afraid  to  do  so." 

Precisely  the  same  words,  in  the  same  writing  of  the 
letter  he  still  carried  in  his  breast  pocket,  and  which  no 
mortal  eyes  but  his  and  hers  had  ever  seen.  As  the  un- 
happy man  sat  gazing  at  the  opened  note,  his  whole  body 
shook  as  if  he  were  attacked  by  ague. 
.  "  It  is  Miss  Cray's  handwriting,  isn't  it,  sir?" 

"It  looks  like  it,  Hewetson.  but  it  cannot  be.  I  tell 
you  it  is  an  impossibility!  Miss  Cray  died  last  month, 
and  I  have  seen  not  only  her  grave,  but  the  doctor  and 
nurse  who  attended  her  in  her  last  illness.  It  is  folly, 
then,  to  suppose  either  that  she  called  here  or  wrote  that 
letter." 


14  THE    GHOST    OP    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

"  Then  who  could  it  have  been,  sir?"  said  Hewetson, 
attacked  with  a  sudden  terror  in  his  turn. 

v  That  is  impossible  for  rne  to  say;  but  should  the  lady 
eall  again,  you  had  better  ask  her  boldly  for  her  name  and 
address." 

"  I'd  rather  you'd  depute  the  office  to  anybody  but  me, 
sir,"  replied  the  clerk,  as  he  hastily  backed  out  of  the 
room. 

Mr.  Braggett,  dying  with  suspense  and  conjecture,  went 
tli rough  his  business  as  best  he  could,  and  hurried  home 
to  Violet  Villa. 

There  he  found  that  his  wife  had  been  spending  the 
day  with  a  friend,  and  only  entered  the  house  a  few  min- 
utes before  himself. 

"  Siggy,  dear!"  she  commenced,  as  soon  as  he  joined 
her  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner;  "I  really  think  we 
should  have  the  fastenings  and  bolts  of  this  house  looked 
to.  Such  a  funny  thing  happened  while  I  was  out  this 
afternoon.  Ellen  has  just  been  telling  me  about  it." 

"  What  sort  of  a  thing,  dear?" 

"  Well,  I  left  home  as  early  as  twelve,  you  know,  and 
told  the  servants  I  shouldn't  be  back  until  dinner- time; 
so  they  were  all  enjoying  themselves  in  the  kitchen,  I 
suppose,  when  cook  told  Ellen  she  heard  a  footstep  in  the 
drawing-room.  Ellen  thought  at  first  it  must  be  cook's 
fancy,  because  she  was  sure  the  front  door  was  fastened; 
but  when  they  listened,  they  all  heard  the  noise  together, 
so  she  ran  upstairs,  and  what  on  earth  do  you  think  she 
saw?" 

"  How  can  I  guess,  my  dear?" 

"  Why,  a  lady,  seated  in  this  very  room,  as  if  she  was 
waiting  for  somebody.  She  was  oldish,  Ellen  says,  and 
had  a  very  white  face,  with  long  curls  hanging  down  each 
side  of  it;  and  she  wore  a  blue  bonnet  with  white  feath- 
ers, and  a  long  black  cloak,  and " 

"Emily,  Emily!  Stop!  You  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  about.  That  girl  is  a  fool:  you  must  send  her 
away.  That  is,  how  could  the  lady  have  got  in  if  the 
door  was  closed?  Good  Heavens!  you'll  all  drive  me  mad 
between  you  with  your  folly!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Braggett, 
as  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  with  an  exclamation 
that  sounded  very  like  a  groan. 

Pretty  Mrs.  Braggett  was  offended.     What  had  she  said 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  15 

or  done  that  her  husband  should  doubt  her  \vord?  She 
tossed  her  iiead  in  indignation,  and  remained  silent.  If 
Mr.  Braggett  wanted  any  further  information,  he  would 
have  to  apologize. 

"Forgive  me,  darling,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause.  I 
don't  think  I'm  very  well  this  evening,  but  your  story 
seemed  to  upset  me." 

"  I  don't  see  why  it  should  upset  you,"  returned  Mrs. 
Braggett.  "If  strangers  are  allowed  to  come  prowling 
about  the  house  in  this  way,  we  shall  be  robbed  some  day, 
and  then  you'll  say  I  should  have  told  you  of  it." 

"  Wouldn't  she — this  person — give  her  name?" 

"  Oh!  I'd  rather  say  no  more  about  it.  You  had  better 
ask  Ellen." 

"  No,  Emily!    I'd  rather  hear  it  from  you." 

"  Well,  don't  interrupt  me  again,  then.  When  Ellen 
saw  the  woman  seated  here,  she  asked  her  her  name  and 
business  at  once,  but  she  gave  no  answer,  and  only  sat 
and  stared  at  her.  And  so  Ellen,  feeling  very  uncomfort- 
able, had  just  turned  round  to  call  up  cook,  when  the 
woman  got  up,  and  dashed  past  her  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning, and  they  saw  nothing  more  of  her!" 

"  Which  way  did  she  leave  the  house?" 

"  Nobody  knows  any  more  than  how  she  came  in.  The 
servants  declare  the  hall  door  was  neither  opened  nor 
shut — but,  of  course,  it  must  have  been.  She  was  a  tall 
gaunt  woman,  Ellen  says,  about  fifty,  and  she's  sure  her 
hair  was  dyed.  She  must  have  come  to  steal  something, 
and  that's  why  I  say  we  ought  to  have  the  house  made 
more  secure.  Why,  Siggy!  Siggy!  what's  the  matter? 
Here,  Ellen!  Jane!  come  quick,  some  of  you!  Your 
master's  fainted!" 

And,  sure  enough,  the  repeated  shocks  and  horrors  of 
the  day  had  had  such  an  effect  upon  poor  Mr.  Braggett, 
that  for  a  moment  he  did  lose  all  consciousness  of  what 
surrounded  him.  He  was  thankful  to  take  advantage  of 
the  Christmas  holidays,  to  run  over  to  Paris  with  his  wife, 
and  try  to  forget,  in  the  many  marvels  of  that  city,  the 
awful  fear  that  fastened  upon  him  at  the  mention  of  any- 
thing connected  with  home.  He  might  be  enjoying  him- 
self to  the  top  of  his  bent;  but  directly  the  remembrance 
of  Charlotte  Cray  crossed  his  mind,  all  sense  of  enjoyment 
vanished,  and  he  trembled  at  the  mere  thought  of  re- 


16  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

turning  to  his  business,  as  a  child  does  when  sent  to  bed 
in  the  dark. 

He  tried  to  hide  the  state  of  his  feelings  from  Mrs. 
Braggett,  but  she  was  too  sharp  for  him.  The  simple, 
blushing  Ernily  Primrose  had  developed,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  matrimonial  forcing-frame,  into  a  good  watch- 
dog, and  nothing  escaped  her  notice. 

Left  to  her  own  conjecture,  she  attributed  his  frequent 
moods  of  dejection  to  the  existence  of  some  other  woman, 
and  became  jealous  accordingly.  If  Siggy  did  not  love 
her,  why  had  he  married  her?  She  felt  certain  there  was 
some  other  horrid  creature  who  had  engaged  his  affections 
and  would  not  leave  him  alone,  even  nosv  that  he  was  her 
own  lawful  property.  And  to  find  out  who  the  "horrid 
creature  "  was  became  Mrs.  Emily's  constant  idea.  When 
she  had  found  out,  she  meant  to  give  her  a  piece  of  her 
mind,  never  fear!  Meanwhile  Mr.  Braggett's  evident 
distaste  to  returning  to  business  only  served  to  increase 
his  wife's  suspicions.  A  clear  conscience,  she  argued, 
would  know  no  fear.  So  they  were  not  a  happy  couple,  as 
they  set  their  faces  once  more  toward  England.  Mr. 
Braggett's  dread  of  re-entering  his  office  amounted  almost 
to  terror,  and  Mrs.  Braggett,  putting  this  and  that  to- 
gether, resolved  that  she  would  fathom  the  mystery,  if  it 
lay  in  feminine  finesse  to  do  so.  She  did  not  whisper  a 
word  of  her  intentions  to  dear  Siggy,  you  may  be  sure  of 
that!  She  worked  after  the  manner  of  her  amiable  sex, 
like  a  cat  in  the  dark,  or  a  worm  boring  through  the 
earth,  and  appearing  on  the  surface  when  least  expected. 

So  poor  Mr.  Braggett  brought  her  home  again,  heavy 
at  heart  indeed,  but  quite  ignorant  that  any  designs  were 
being  made  against  him.  I  think  he  would  have  given  a 
thousand  pounds  to  be  spared  the  duty  of  attending  office 
the  day  after  his  arrival.  But  it  was  necessary,  and  he 
went,  like  a  publisher  and  a  Briton.  But  Mrs.  Emily 
had  noted  his  trepidation  and  his  fears,  and  laid  her  plans 
accordingly.  She  had  never  been  asked  to  enter  those 
mysterious  precincts,  the  house  of  business.  Mr.  Braggett 
had  not  thought  it  necessary  that  her  blooming  loveliness 
should  be  made  acquainted  with  its  dingy,  dusty  accesso- 
ries, but  she  meant  to  see  them  for  herself  to-da}7.  So  she 
waited  till  he  had  left  Violet  Villa  ten  minutes,  and  then 
she  dressed  and  followed  him  bv  the  next  train  to  London* 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  1* 

Mr.  Sigismund  Braggett  meanwhile  had  gone  on  his 
way,  as  people  go  to  a  dentist,  determined  to  do  what  was 
right,  but  with  an  indefinite  sort  of  idea  that  lie  might 
never  come  out  of  it  alive.  He  dreaded  to  hear  what 
might  have  happened  in  his  absence,  and  he  delayed  his 
arrival  at  the  office  for  half-an-hour,  by  walking  there  in- 
stead of  taking  a  cab  as  usual,  in  order  to  put  off  the  evil 
moment.  As  he  entered  the  place,  however,  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  his  efforts  were  vain,  and  that  something  had 
occurred.  The  customary  formality  and  precision  of  the 
office  were  upset,  and  the  clerks,  instead  of  bending  over 
their  ledgers,  or  attending  to  the  demands  of  business, 
were  all  huddled  together  at  one  end  whispering  and  ges- 
ticulating to  each  other.  But  as  soon  as  the  publisher 
appeared,  a  dead  silence  fell  upon  the  group,  and  they 
only  stared  at  him  with  an  air  of  horrid  mystery. 

'k  What  is  the  matter  now?"  he  demanded,  angrily,  for- 
like  most  men  when  in  a  fright  which  they  are  ashamed 
to  exhibit,  Mr.  Sigismund  Braggett  tried  to  cover  his 
want  of  courage  by  bounce. 

The  young  man  called  Hewetson  advanced  toward  him, 
with  a  face  the  color  of  ashes,  and  pointed  toward  the 
ground-glass  doors  dumbly. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  Can't  you  speak?  What's  come 
to  the  lot  of  you,  that  you  are  neglecting  my  business  in 
this  fashion  to  make  fools  of  yourselves?" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  she's  in  there." 

Mr.  Braggett  started  back  as  if  he'd  been  shot.  But 
still  he  tried  to  have  it  out. 

"She!    Who's  she?" 

"  Miss  Cray,  sir." 

"Haven't  I  told  you  already  that's  a  lie." 

"Will  you  judge  for  yourself,  Mr.  Braggett?"  said  a 
gray-haired  man,  stepping  forward.  "I  was  on  the  stairs 
myself  just  now  when  Miss  Cray  passed  me,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  whatever  but  that  you  will  find  her  in  your  private 
room,  however  much  the  reports  that  have  lately  reached 
you  may  seem  against  the  probability  of  such  a  thing." 

Mr.  Braggett's  teeth  chattered  in  his  head  as  he  ad- 
vanced to  the  groand-glass  doors,  through  the  panes  of 
one  of  which  there  was  a  little  peephole  to  ascertain  if  the 
room  were  occupied  or  not.  He  stooped  and  looked  in. 
At  the  table,  with  her  back  toward  him,  was  seated  the 


18  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY. 

well-known  figure  of  Charlotte  Cray.  He  recognized  at 
once  the  long  black  mantle  in  which  she  was  wont  to  drape 
her  gaunt  figure — the  blue  bonnet,  with  its  dejected-look- 
ing, uncurled  feather — the  lank  curls  which  rested  on  her 
shoulders— and  the  black-leather  bag,  with  a  steel  clasp, 
which  she  always  carried  in  her  hand.  It  was  the  embodi- 
ment of  Charlotte  Cray,  he  had  no  doubt  of  that;  but 
how  could  he  reconcile  the  fact  of  her  being  there  with 
the  damp  clods  he  had  seen  piled  upon  her  grave,  with  the 
certificate  of  death,  and  the  doctor's  and  the  landlady's 
assertion  that  they  had  watched  her  last  moments? 

At  last  he  prepared  with  desperate  energy,  to  turn  the 
handle  of  the  door.  At  that  moment  the  attention  of  the 
more  frivolous  of  the  clerks  was  directed  from  his  actions 
by  the  entrance  of  an  uncommonly  pretty  woman  at  the 
other  end  of  the  outer  office.  Such  a  lovely  creature  as 
this  seldom  brightened  the  gloom  of  their  dusty  abiding- 
place.  Lilies,  roses,  and  carnations  vied  with  each  other 
in  her  complexion,  whilst  the  sunniest  of  locks,  and  the 
brightest  of  blue  eyes,  lent  her  face  a  girlish  charm  not 
easily  described.  What  could  this  fashionably-attired 
Venus  want  in  their  house  of  business? 

"  Is  Mr.  Braggett  here?  I  am  Mrs.  Braggett.  Please 
»how  me  in  to  him  immediately." 

They  glanced  at  the  ground-glass  doors  of  the  inner 
office.  They  had  already  closed  behind  the  manly  form  of 
their  employer. 

"This  way,  madam,"  one  said,  deferentially,  as  he  es- 
corted her  to  the  presence  of  Mr,  Braggett. 

Meanwhile,  Sigismund  had  opened  the  portals  of  the 
Temple  of  Mystery,  and  with  trembling  knees  entered  it. 
The  figure  in" the  chair  did  not  stir  at  his  approach.  He 
stood  at  the  door  irresolute.  What  should  he  do  or  say? 

"Charlotte,"  he  whispered. 

Still  she  did  not  move. 

At  that  moment  his  wife  entered. 

"Oh,  Sigismund!"  cried  Mrs.  Emily,  reproachfully,  "I 
knew  you  were  keeping  something  from  me,  and  now  I've 
caught  you  in  the  very  act.  Who  is  this  lady,  and  what 
is  her  name?  I  shall  refuse  to  leave  the  room  until  I 
know  it." 

At  the  sound  of  her  rival's  voice,  the  woman  in  the 
chair  rose  quickly  to  her  feet  and  confronted  them.  Yes! 


THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CRAY.  19 

there  was  Charlotte  Cray,  precisely  similar  to  what  she 
had  appeared  in  life,  only  with  an  uncertainty  and  vague- 
ness about  the  lines  of  the  familiar  features  that  made 
them  ghastly. 

She  stood  there,  looking  Mrs.  Emily  full  in  the  face, 
but  only  for  a  moment,  for,  even  as  she  gazed,  the  line- 
aments grew  less  and  less  distinct,  with  the  shape  of  the 
figure  that  supported  them,  until,  with  a  crash,  the  ap- 
parition seemed  to  fall  in  and  disappear,  and  the  place 
that  had  known  her  was  filled  with  empty  air. 

"  Where  is  she  gone?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Braggett,  in  a 
tone  of  utter  amazement. 

"Where  is  who  gone?"  repeated  Mr.  Braggett,  hardly 
able  to  articulate  from  fear. 

"  The  lady  in  the  chair!'' 

"  There  was  no  one  there  except  in  your  own  imagina- 
tion. It  was  my  great-coat  that  you  mistook  for  a  figure," 
returned  her  husband  hastily,  as  he  threw  the  article  in 
question  over  the  back  of  the  arm-chair. 

"  But  how  could  that  have  been?"  said  his  pretty  wife, 
rubbing  her  eyes.  "How  could  I  think  a  coat  had  eyes, 
and  hair,  and  features?  I  am  sure  I  saw  a  woman  seated 
there,  and  that  she  rose  and  stared  at  me.  Siggy!  tell  me 
it  was  true.  It  seems  so  incomprehensible  that  I  should 
have  been  mistaken." 

"  You  must  question  your  own  sense.  You  see  that  the 
room  is  empty  now,  except  for  ourselves,  and  you  know 
that  no  one  has  left  it.  If  you  like  to  search  under  the 
table,  you  can." 

"Ah!  now,  Siggy,  you  are  laughing  at  me,  because  you 
know  that  would  be  folly.  But  there  was  certainly  some 
one  here — only,  where  can  she  have  disappeared  to?" 

"Suppose  we  discuss  the  matter  at  a  more  convenient 
season,"  replied  Mr.  Braggett,  as  he  drew  his  wife's  arm 
through  his  arm.  "  Hewetson !  you  will  be  able  to  tell  Mr. 
Hume  that  he  was  mistaken.  Say,  also,  that  I  shall  not 
be  back  in  the  office  to-day.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I 
thought  I  was,  and  feel  quite  unequal  to  business.  Tell 
him  to  come  out  to  Streatham  this  evening  with  my  let- 
ters, and  I  will  talk  with  him  there." 

What  passed  at  that  interview  was  never  disclosed;  but 
pretty  Mrs.  Braggett  was  much  rejoiced,  a  short  time  af- 
terward, by  her  husband  telling  her  that  he  had  resolved 


20  THE    GHOST    OF    CHARLOTTE    CKAY. 

to  resign  his  active  share  of  the  business,  and  devote  the 
rest  of  his  life  to  her  and  Violet  Villa.  He  would  have  no 
more  occasion,  therefore,  to  visit  the  office,  and  be  ex- 
posed to  the  temptation  of  spending  four  or  five  hours  out 
of  every  twelve  away  from  her  side.  For,  though  Mrs. 
Emily  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  momentary 
glimpse  she  caught  of  a  lady  in  Siggy's  office  must  have 
been  a  delusion,  she  was  not  quite  satisfied  by  his  asser- 
tions that  she  would  never  have  found  a  more  tangible 
cause  for  her  jealousy. 

But  Sigismnnd  Braggett  knew  more  than  he  chose  to  tell 
Mrs.  Emily.  He  knew  that  what  she  had  witnessed  was  no 
delusion,  but  a  reality;  and  that  Charlotte  Cray  had  car- 
ried out  her  dying  determination  to  call  at  his  office  and 
his  private  residence,  until  she  had  seen  his  wife  ! 


A     000120785     1 


